Exploring Ireland’s Viking-Age Towns: Houses and Homes (Routledge Archaeologies of the Viking World) [1 ed.] 9780367482787, 9781032591094, 9781003039006, 0367482789

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Exploring Ireland’s Viking-Age Towns

Exploring Ireland’s Viking-Age Towns discusses the emergence of towns, urban lifestyles, and urban identities in Ireland. This coincides with the arrival of the Vikings and the appearance of the post-and-wattle Type 1 house. These houses reflect this crucial transition to urban living with its attendant changes for individuals, households, and society. Exploring Ireland’s Viking-Age Towns uses household archaeology as a lens to explore the materiality, variability, and day-to-day experiences of living in these houses. It moves from the intimate scale of individual households to the larger scale of Ireland’s earliest urban communities. For the first time, this book considers how these houses were more than just buildings: they were homes, important places where people lived, worked, and died. These new towns were busy places with a multitude of people, ideas, and things. This book uses the mass of archaeological data to undertake comparative analyses of houses and properties, artefact distribution patterns, and access analysis studies to interrogate some 500 Viking-Age urban houses. This analysis is structured in three parts: an investigation of the houses, the households, and the town. Exploring Ireland’s Viking-Age Towns discusses how these new urban households managed their homes to create a sense of place and belonging in these new environments and allow themselves to develop a new, urban identity. This book is suited to advanced students and specialists of the Viking Age in Ireland, but archaeologists and historians of the early medieval and Viking worlds will find much of interest here. It will also appeal to readers with interests in the archaeology of house and home, households, identities, and urban studies. Rebecca Boyd is an archaeologist with a special research interest in the emergence of towns and urban life in Ireland’s Viking Age. She held a Government of Ireland Fellowship at the Department of Archaeology, University College Cork from 2019 to 2021. She obtained her PhD from University College ­Dublin in 2012. Her research interests span Ireland’s Viking Age, the archaeology of houses and households, crannogs, and public perceptions of heritage and archaeology.

Routledge Archaeologies of the Viking World Series editors: Neil Price, Charlotte Hedenstierna-Jonson, and Ben Raffield

Vikings are a perennially popular topic across a broad audience spectrum, from the general public to academics at all levels, but comparatively few book series are dedicated to the steady flow of Viking-related archaeological texts. Routledge Archaeologies of the Viking World showcases the latest outputs of the profession’s brightest scholars, including established names but particularly acting as an outlet for the new generation of early-career researchers. The archaeological investigations of the Viking world within the series have a direct focus on the Scandinavians but also on the zones of cultural interaction that characterised their broad diaspora. The editors have particular interests in the eastern Viking Age, from European Russia to the Asian Steppe, the Arab world, and beyond to the Silk Road and the Far East. This region is significantly under-represented in new English-language publications, and books on this theme will become a hallmark of the series alongside Western studies. Monarchs and Hydrarchs The Conceptual Development of Viking Activity across the Frankish Realm (c. 750-940) Christian Cooijmans A Viking Market Kingdom in Ireland and Britain Trade Networks and the Importation of a Southern Scandinavian Silver Bullion Economy Tom Horne Viking-Age Trade Silver, Slaves and Gotland Edited by Jacek Gruszczyński, Marek Jankowiak, Jonathan Shepard Vikings of the Steppe Scandinavians, Rus’, and the Turkic World (c. 750–1050) Csete Katona For more information about this series, please visit https://www.routledge.com/ Routledge-Archaeologies-of-the-Viking-World/book-series/RAVW.

Exploring Ireland’s Viking-Age Towns Houses and Homes Rebecca Boyd

Designed cover image: The Black Pool in the 9th century, Reconstruction Drawing of Structure B, South Great Georges Street. Image ©Simon Dick (2007) for Margaret Gowen & Co. Ltd. First published 2024 by Routledge 4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business. © 2024 Rebecca Boyd The right of Rebecca Boyd to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. ISBN: 978-0-367-48278-7 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-032-59109-4 (pbk) ISBN: 978-1-003-03900-6 (ebk) DOI: 10.4324/9781003039006 Typeset in Times New Roman by SPi Technologies India Pvt Ltd (Straive)

For Simon, Jim, Ben, and Scott. The book is finally done, thank you.

Contents

List of Figures ix List of Maps xi List of Tables xii Preface xiii Acknowledgements xiv 1. Introduction: An Archaeology of Houses, of Towns, and of Households

1

PART 1

The Houses

21

2. Ireland’s 9th-Century Viking-Age Settlements

23

3. Ireland’s 10th- to 12th-Century Viking-Age Towns

51

4. Exploring the Houses

79

PART 2

The Households

101

5. Artefact Distribution Studies: Visible and Invisible Work Practices

103

6. Access Analysis: Moving Around the House

131

7. Exploring the Properties

157

viii Contents PART 3

The Town

183

8. Urban Worlds and Urban Lives

185

9. Ireland’s Viking-Age Towns: Where Next?

206

Appendix A  Site Gazetteer 210 Appendix B  The Artefact Distribution Tables 212 Bibliography 237 Index 268

Figures



2.1 2.2 2.3 2.4 2.5 3.1

3.2 4.1 4.2 4.3 4.4 4.5 5.1

5.2 5.3 5.4 5.5 5.6 5.7 6.1 6.2 6.3

6.4

House plans from excavated rural settlement sites 25 9th- and early 10th-century activity at the Black Pool, Dublin 36 9th-century activity at Temple Bar West, Dublin 37 9th- and 10th-century housing from Kaupang, Ribe, and York 42 Excavated road surfaces from Dublin and Waterford 47 The houses at the Coombe, Dublin in the late 12th century. Reconstruction drawing by C. McHale for ACAS 73 Conjectural reconstruction of the late 11th-century Aungier Street house, Dublin. Reconstruction drawing by Matthew Ryan (matthewryanhistoricalillustrator.com) 74 A blanket used as a wall hanging and radiant break in the reconstructed Viking house at Moesgaard Museum, Denmark 84 The thatched roofs of the reconstructed Viking houses at the Irish National Heritage Park 86 The interior of the houses 89 The hearth of the reconstructed Viking houses at the Irish National Heritage Park 90 Details of the reconstructed Viking houses at Moesgaard Museum and the Irish National Heritage Park 94 Fishamble Street building sequence showing houses selected for artefact distribution studies 105 Artefact distribution studies of Type 2 houses 111 Artefact distribution study of FS29 115 Artefact distribution study of FS46 116 Artefact distribution study of FS88 118 Artefact distribution study of FS90 120 Artefact distribution study of FS90A 121 The principles of access analysis 132 Justified gamma analyses of Scandinavian longhouses 135 Justified gamma analyses of late 9th- to early 10th-century Type 1 houses 137 Justified gamma analyses of late 10th- to mid-11th-century Type 1 houses 138

x Figures 6.5 Justified gamma analyses of late 11th- to 12th-century Type 1 houses 139 6.6 Gamma analyses of ancillary buildings and rural houses 145 6.7 Justified gamma analyses of housing sequences from Waterford and Dublin 148 6.8 Building level 8, Fishamble Street, Dublin 153 7.1 10th-century property layouts in Dublin 160 7.2 11th-century property layouts in Dublin 163 7.3 Artist’s impression of late 10th-century activity at Temple Bar West 168 7.4 Composite drawing of 11th- and 12th-century houses and activity at Hammond Lane, Dublin 174 8.1 Dublin c. 975. Image of Viking Dublin from Dublin, One Thousand Years by Stephen Conlin published by The O’Brien Press Ltd, Dublin, © Copyright Stephen Conlin 186 8.2 The Ford of the Hurdles, Dublin, c1050 190 8.3 Artist’s impression of life on Fishamble Street, Dublin in the Viking Age 196

Maps



2.1 2.2 3.1 3.2 3.3 3.4

Map of key sites Dublin in the 9th century Map of 10th- to 11th-century housing activity in Dublin Map of 11th- and 12th-century activity in Waterford Map of 11th- and 12th-century activity in Cork Map of 12th-century activity in Dublin

24 32 54 60 64 71

Tables



1.1 2.1 5.1 5.2 5.3 6.1

B.1 B.2 B.3 B.4 B.5 B.6 B.7 B.8 B.9

The Hiberno-Norse building typology Comparison of permanency criteria in 9th-century sites Artefacts grouped by category Artefacts grouped by materials Types of activities as suggested by the artefacts Houses in Property 3, Peter Street, and Property 11, Fishamble Street The artefacts from the Type 5 structures The artefacts from FS23 The artefacts from FS29 The artefacts from FS46 The artefacts from FS84 The artefacts from FS88 The artefacts from FS90 The artefacts from FS90A Concordance of artefacts from all houses

7 49 107 108 124 149 213 213 215 216 219 221 227 230 233

Preface

In Ireland, the State holds our archaeological heritage in trust for the people of Ireland under the auspices of the National Monuments Act (1930). Archaeological interventions and excavations are licenced and monitored by the National Monuments Service, the National Museum of Ireland, and the individual licence holders. Running under these layers is an underlying duty of care towards our archaeological heritage and our responsibility to transmit our knowledge of that heritage to the people of Ireland. In simple words, archaeologists must tell people what we have found and, crucially, convince them of why it is important and relevant to them. This book is important because it tells the story of how Ireland’s urban narrative begins and asks why and how people in Ireland moved from living on farms to living in towns. Our relationships with towns are somewhat fraught: towns are relics of colonial rule, they are different, they are other, they are foreign. Except, it seems that they are not. As we will see throughout this book, Ireland’s first towns were not places imposed or created by ‘others’ alone. These Viking-Age townspeople combined elements of local Irish styles and international styles to create Irelands first urban places. The Vikings played an important part in creating that urban world, but these towns would not have survived, let alone thrived, without a supportive local environment. These places were not ‘Viking’ towns, nor were they ‘Irish’ towns; they simply were ‘towns’. They were connected to local, national, and international networks, as close to globally connected as it was possible to be a thousand years ago. These connections were enabled by the Vikings, who are, in many ways, extraordinary opportunists, the ultimate chameleons. The emergence of Ireland’s first towns in the Viking Age made a profound and lasting impression on our landscape. They were places of change, growth, challenge, and immense possibility. But through actions and responses, those people who lived in these towns created new lives and new futures for themselves. The Viking Age was an exciting time, one from which we can learn lessons when it comes to our uncertain futures. We can adapt to changing places, to changing environments, and to changing ways of life. To do this, we must acknowledge our connections to our past and our future, we must be flexible, and we must care for our world. Archaeology shows us how to do that and how making those connections will help us see hope in and hope for our future.

Acknowledgements

The process of writing is time-consuming and complex, especially when new archaeological sites and research emerge which somehow need to be threaded into the narrative. These new discoveries will always enrich that thread, and I extend my sincere gratitude to the excavators and researchers who have generously shared their work with me: Aisling Collins, Adrienne Corless, Sarah Croix, Paul Duffy, Alan Hayden, Maurice Hurley, Hilary Kelleher, Máire Ní Loinsigh, Ruth Johnson, Orla Scally, Linzi Simpson, Deborah Sutton, Patrick F. Wallace, and Claire Walsh. The National Museum of Ireland granted me permission to visit the Medieval Dublin archive in 2009, under the guidance of Adrienne Corless, to carry out the research which forms the heart of Chapter 4. I would like to acknowledge the talented illustrators who shared their reconstructions of Viking Dublin: Stephen Conlin, Simon Dick, Steve Doogan, Conor McHale, Johnny Ryan, and Matthew Ryan. Reconstruction drawings are among the best tools to create conversations about what life was really like in any age. These images are incredibly valuable, and their creators deserve full credit. I give a special mention to Simon Dick and Eileen Reilly, a pair of truly inspirational archaeologists. I was lucky enough to have known both Simon and Eileen early in my career, and Irish archaeology owes them both a great debt. I am grateful for the support I received during my Irish Research Council Government of Ireland Postdoctoral Fellowship at the Department of ­Archaeology, University College Cork. My thanks got to John Sheehan, Griffin Murray, William O’Brien and the departmental staff for their support. I also acknowledge my colleagues from University College Dublin’s School of Archaeology, where I undertook my doctoral research, especially Aidan O’Sullivan, Joanna Bruck, Steve Davis, Meriel McClatchie, and David Stone for acting as sounding boards. I would like to extend my thanks to Helena Buffery and Allen White in the College of Arts for advice and guidance and, especially, to Caro Bainbridge for unwavering encouragement. A special mention to my ‘playschool mom’ friends who cheered me on, and to Riona, Kate, and Diane, thank you for all your reassurance and support. All writing is improved by feedback so my heartfelt thanks to my editors and proposal reviewers for their belief and encouragement throughout

Acknowledgements  xv this process. Thanks also go to all the behind-the-scenes team at Routledge and to Francis Young for his expertise in compiling the index. My final thanks go to my family, to Simon, Jim, Ben, and Scott for listening to me, for allowing me to disappear into the Viking world, and for always being there when I come back again.

1 Introduction An Archaeology of Houses, of Towns, and of Households

Introduction The Vikings are an incredibly important part of Ireland’s cultural narrative, which is, nowadays, highly archaeologically visible. Over the past half a century, the corpus of antiquarian finds of Viking burials, weapons, silver hoards, lead weights, and coins (Ó Floinn, 1998, 195) has been joined by a host of newer archaeological discoveries. These discoveries are centred in our towns, our first urban places, and, excitingly, include 493 Viking-Age houses from Dublin, Cork, and Waterford. Archaeologists have carefully revealed their walls built of delicate post-and-wattle, door thresholds worn down by the passage of feet, hearths with the ashes of the last fire lit in them, and sleeping areas covered with layers of brushwood and straw. Houses, more than any other archaeological artefact, have the capacity to evoke empathy and familiarity; they reflect our own homes. The story which these Viking-Age houses tell is remarkable. It is the story of how people used their houses to create and structure Ireland’s new urban world. Traditionally, Ireland’s Viking Age lasts for about 350 years, and the first raid dates to 795. It ends with another, apparently, seismic change, the arrival of the Normans in 1169, although, in retrospect, it is more likely that the Norman arrival accelerated changes already under way (Potterton and ­Murphy, 2010, 492). The period from the 9th to 12th century was a time of great change, with the arrival of the Vikings coinciding with developments in agricultural practices, settlement styles, religious practices, climatic changes, and population levels (Coyle-McClung and Plunkett, 2020; Hannah and McLaughlin, 2019; Kerr et al., 2015; Ludlow, 2021; McClatchie et al., 2014; McCormick and Murray, 2007; McLaughlin et al., 2018; O’Sullivan, 2016; O’Sullivan et al., 2021; Stout, 2017). This tumultuous time makes for compelling stories of raiders and warriors (Booker and Peters, 2014), princesses and slaves (in 2019, the story of Melkorka from the Laxdaela Saga was turned into a multimedia exhibition entitled “Mother’s Blood Sister Songs,” Buckley and Shaw, 2019), and great international alliances such as were seen at the Battle of Clontarf in 1014 (Clarke and Johnson, 2015b). Most important of all, at least for the purposes of this book, is that the Viking Age coincided with the DOI: 10.4324/9781003039006-1

2 Introduction emergence of Ireland’s first true towns and the beginning of urban lifestyles and living. These two events have often been conflated, and the Vikings have been credited with introducing urbanism to Ireland (Daly, 1986, 62; De Paor, 1976, 30). However, as scholars have recognised for some time, the situation was far more complex than that (e.g. Bradley, 1988, 2009; Clarke, 1998, 334). The houses at the heart of this book are the houses which those first town people townspeople built. Previous approaches to the houses focused on their appearance and construction, engineering capabilities, and building styles. This approach has grounded us in the data, but it has not considered how the houses functioned as homes, as places where people lived, and as part of that new urban world. My approach takes the archaeological evidence of those houses – their excavated floor plans, their archaeological finds, their situation within the town – and uses this evidence to tell a story about the growth of Ireland’s Viking-Age towns and the lives of the people who lived there. My analysis centres three things: the houses themselves, the towns which those houses created, and the households who lived in those houses. Dating Ireland’s Viking Age

Archaeologists and historians have divided Ireland’s Viking Age in many ways. There are Early and Late Viking Ages (Clarke et al., 1998), pre- and post-902 eras (Bradley, 2009), longphort, exile and interregnum, and dún eras (Clarke, 1990–1992), Viking and Hiberno-Norse or Hiberno-Scandinavian eras, pre-917 and post-917 periods, and Phase 1 (pre-902), Phase 2 (917–980), and Phase 3 (980 to the 11th or 12th century). This detailed periodisation is wholly based on historical references to Viking activities (Clarke and Johnson, 2015a, 19–21), which, of course, relate only to those activities which the chroniclers deemed important enough to note. These are partial records of events which came to the attention of the chroniclers; many other events will never have been recorded. Overall, there is little archaeological evidence to support many of these artificial divisions, although Clarke and Johnson’s (ibid, 2015) preference for Early or Late Viking Age may be most relevant in terms of the archaeological record. In stark contrast, our archaeological dates are rather less precise. Excavators refer to 9th-century, 9th- or 10th-century, 10th-century, 11th- or 12th-century, or even 10th- to 12th-century Viking or Hiberno-Norse activity. These archaeological date ranges are based largely on the chronologies of excavated artefacts which, in most cases, cover centuries rather than decades (Jones, 2012, 18). In regard to scientific dating, there are surprisingly few available radiocarbon or dendrochronological date points for the Viking Age. (There are just 17 Viking-Age dates listed in Chapple, 2019). The problem arises where the archaeological data and historical data collide, most expressly as we will see in 9th- and early 10th-century contexts in Dublin. Prior to the late 1990s, the earliest archaeological levels of Dublin were supposed to be early 10th century, a response to the presumed abandonment of the longphort of Dublin in 902. This certainty was shaken when

Introduction  3 radiocarbon dating confirmed that settlement at Temple Bar West spanned the 902–917 abandonment period (Simpson, 2000, 24). Scientific dates from the Black Pool burials then confirmed definitive 9th-century Viking activity, which pre-dates Dublin’s earliest historical date of 840–841 (Griffiths, 2019, 474; Simpson, 2005, 50–53). This has to raise doubt over the dating of the earliest activity at Wood Quay, High Street, Winetavern Street, and Christchurch Place, which have yet to undergo sustained scientific dating programmes (Simpson, 2010b, 84). We urgently require an expanded scientific dating programme to reassess all Viking-Age activity in Dublin. Who is a ‘Viking’?

While this is a book about Viking-Age housing and Viking-Age towns, it is important to define here what I mean by ‘Vikings’. This is a somewhat contentious issue, as the terms ‘Viking’ and ‘Old Norse’ have been appropriated and now carry undertones of racial tension, white supremacy, and nationalism (Barrett, 2008, 671–672; Birkett, 2021, 2022; Downham, 2008). Technically, a ‘Viking’ is a raiding, piratical figure, emerging from Scandinavia after the late 8th century (Driscoll, 2019, 20; Jesch, 2015, 5). Moen emphasises the importance of travel for such ‘Vikings’ (Moen, 2020b, ‘The Vikings of the Viking Age’ section). While these travelling ‘Vikings’ represent only a small proportion of the entire population of Scandinavia, these are the ‘Vikings’ active in Ireland during the 9th and 10th centuries. For Gruszczyński, these travels led to the ‘Vikings’ making a lasting impression in the material cultures of the regions they visited, and it is this legacy which represents their major contribution (Gruszczyński, 2019, 6). In Ireland, this ‘Viking’ legacy takes the form of their ship camps (longphuirt) such as Woodstown, Co. Waterford (Russell and Hurley, 2014), their furnished burials provided with swords or axes (Harrison and Ó Floinn, 2014), their silver hoards (Graham-Campbell, 1976; Sheehan, 2000), and the many references to their activities in the annals and chronicles of the 9th to 12th centuries (Clarke et al., 1998). What these ‘Vikings’ have left scant evidence for in Ireland is their typical ‘Viking’ architecture: the halls and longhouses of Scandinavia and the North Atlantic (Boyd, 2015b). These halls are virtually synonymous with ‘Viking’ identities (Eriksen, 2019; Larsen and Stummann Hansen, 2001; Lucas, 2009), but there is only one site, Dublin’s Black Pool (Simpson, 2004, 2005, 2010a), which hints at the existence of these ‘Viking’ buildings in Ireland. Rather, the houses that this book explores are more commonly referred to as ‘Hiberno-Norse’ or ‘Hiberno-Norse Type’ houses. This terminology refers to the Hiberno-Norse building typology (Wallace, 1992a), inspired by the concept of a ‘Hiberno-Norse’ material culture, developed by Bradley in his discussion of rural Viking-Age settlement in Ireland (Bradley, 1988, 60–61; although Bradley preferred the term “Hiberno-Scandinavian”, the former term is more commonly used today). This refers to the merging of both Irish and Viking

4 Introduction elements in a new expression of artistic style, language, and material culture, including architecture, in which no distinctly Irish or Viking elements can be discerned (ibid). The idea of a Hiberno-Scandinavian milieu is now commonplace, but familiarity can mean a de-sensitivity, and an uncritical use of the term (Boyd, 2015b, 339; Gibbons and Gibbons, 2008a, 29–30). This leads us into the realm of Viking-Age social identities, a complex field of study with many possible engagements. Very simply, most researchers now tend to the view that individuals can choose to frame their own identities in terms of multiple, competing, and complementary characteristics. Earlier discussions of fixed and fluid or primordial and instrumental identities (Barrett, 2003) have been replaced by a view of identity as positional and intersectional. Explorations of gender and ethnic identities dominate the contemporary discussion of such characteristics, and questions around creolisation, intersectionality, and personhood have become more common (see summary by Lund and Sindbæk, 2021, Individuals and Multiple Identities). Whilst these concepts are well developed in Scandinavian contexts, their application here remains to be developed (Harrison, 2017, 135). Of these questions of identity, the topic which has seen most engagement is the idea of ethnicity, specifically in relation to the concept of Hiberno-Scandinavian identities (Boyd, 2015b; Bradley, 1988, 2009; Gibbons and Gibbons, 2008a, 2008b). However, this treatment has, by and large, been superficial and without any great degree of critical engagement or reflection on the transition from ‘Norse’ to ‘Hiberno-Norse’ (Harrison, 2017, 131–132). In regard to the houses, the term ‘Hiberno-Norse’ is inextricably linked to the architecture of this period, a particular style of post-and-wattle building found in 9th- to 12th-century levels in Dublin, Cork, Waterford, and Wexford. As you will note, however, this chronology contradicts the chronology of Bradley’s Hiberno-Scandinavian concept which referred only to an 11th- and 12th-century cultural milieu. A further complication arises from the presence of buildings similar to these in 8th- and 9th-century contexts in Scandinavia, specifically Ribe and Kaupang. Using the ethnic designation of ‘Hiberno-Norse’ in these situations seems less and less appropriate. Rather, I see their consistent appearance in these earliest ‘urban’ contexts as the factor which unites and connects this particular type of buildings. I use their appearance within ‘urban’ contexts to designate these as a particularly urban type of building rather than belonging to any particular ethnicity. Throughout this book, I talk of ‘Vikings’ in specific reference to that particular package of 9th- and 10th-century material culture in the awareness that it is one with a very limited architectural footprint in Ireland. You will find few ‘Vikings’ outside of Chapter 2. I use the term ‘Hiberno-Norse’ specifically in relation to houses from Irish Viking-Age towns classified using Wallace’s building typology. In relation to specific houses discussed in the text, I refer to these houses using their typological classification (Types 1–7, see below), their relative locations within their properties (main house, ancillary buildings, front or back house), or their chronology or stratigraphy, according to the excavator’s report.

Introduction  5 I use the term ‘Viking-Age’ housing to refer to structures built in Ireland between the 9th and 12th centuries in settlements which can be traced to either ‘Viking’ (9th/10th century) or ‘Hiberno-Norse’ (10th–12th century) origins. The House Houses are buildings, constructions, pieces of engineering. A house consists of four walls and a roof. A house is a place where people live, where they play, relax, eat, give birth, teach, make, grieve, and die. Houses shape our environment and our interactions from birth to death, but they are not static. Houses are human places, valued not just because they provide shelter from the elements and the wild but because they are places of meaning and relevance. They provide a lens through which we can explore the worlds of those who lived in them on many different scales and timeframes. The archaeology of these Viking-Age houses was, for a long time, about the buildings, their construction, their engineering. The analysis of houses as structures is what Tringham refers to as the analysis of their ‘construction’ phase of their uselife (Tringham, 1995, 82–84). Since the 1990s, archaeologists have accepted the house as a social place, a physical place which is imbued with social cues, meanings, and reflections of the worlds and people who constructed them. Approaches to the social archaeology of houses can fall into several different categories – structural approaches such as binary oppositions as in Bourdieu’s Berber house, enculturation and childhood learned behaviours, derived from Rapaport, or Bourdieu’s theory of habitus or learning from past behaviours (Jones, 2012, 19–28). The classic Irish early medieval house is a roundhouse built of post-and-­ wattle or stone and set in individual farmsteads. The overwhelming majority of the 550 excavated early medieval houses are roundhouses (O’Sullivan et al., 2021, 89). There are some examples of rectangular housing but these are generally poorly preserved and later than 10th century. On average, these one-room houses had floor areas of 45 m2 (Lynn, 1994, 91; O’Sullivan and Nicholl, 2011). They featured a central hearth with bedding areas against the walls of the house. These ‘beds’ consist of layers of brushwoods, grass, and sods retained by post-and-­ wattle kerbs (Murray, 1979; O’Sullivan, 2008). The floors are made of earth and clay, wattle, brushwood, stone slabs, and gravel (O’Sullivan, 2008). The central hearth can be a simple ash spread or a more elaborate stone paved or kerbed setting. Sometimes, a second house was attached to the rear of the main house, giving a figure-of-eight shape to the complex. Typical housing in Iron-Age and Viking-Age Scandinavia is exemplified by the timber longhouse. This is a post-built longhouse which combined living quarters for humans and a byre for animals under the same roof (Eriksen, 2019, 41–48; Hamerow, 2002, 14–21; Lucas, 2009, 376). This roof can be vast; the largest longhouse excavated measured 80 m long (Munch et al., 2003), although lengths of 20–30 m and widths of 5–6 m are more common

6 Introduction (Lucas, 2009, 376). The longhouse was occupied by “an agricultural household”, the “basic unit” of Iron Age social structure (Herschend, 2020, ‘Introduction’ section). This ‘longhouse package’ is recreated across east, west, and southern Scandinavia (ibid) and is also found across the North Atlantic. In Iceland, the longhouses are usually constructed on a slightly smaller scale, measuring 12–16 m in length (Lucas, 2009, 376). This is likely a result of the lower availability of suitable building materials on these treeless islands. The reproduction of this building style, despite the constraints on building materials, highlights the attachment of the households to this ‘package’ (Eriksen, 2019, 48) which serves as an identifier of Viking affiliations (Milek, 2006, 90). Against this backdrop of roundhouses and longhouses, the houses first excavated in the heart of Viking Dublin in the 1960s and 1970s stood out. They represented a new style of housing, constructed of post-and-wattle as most Irish contemporary houses were but rectangular like the ‘Viking’ longhouse. Far from being a passing fashion, this post-and-wattle house has been excavated on 26 sites across Ireland; in total, 493 houses have now been excavated (see Appendix A). Initial analyses of these houses focused on creating and refining building typologies to classify the houses into meaningful and useful categories (Murray, 1981, 1983; Wallace, 1992b). The result is the H ­ iberno-Norse Building Typology which used wall construction and roof support methods to classify these buildings (Table 1.1). The Type 1 house is represented on every single excavation, along with accompanying ancillary buildings. The Hiberno-Norse building typology includes houses excavated and classifiable prior to 2012 (15 post-and-wattle houses were excavated in Wexford, but only two date to the 11th century, Bourke, 1988–1989). The overall number of excavated buildings now shows that the Typology is somewhat dated. There is very little spread across the categories prior to the 12th century, and more than a quarter of houses are unclassified (see Boyd, 2015b, 332–333 for further discussion). As Hurley has shown with his re-appraisal of the Type 6 and 7 categories (Hurley, 2014a, 488–490), there is scope to re-assess the remainder of the categories. However, I would caution against replacing this Typology with a new and more or less elaborate version. Wallace’s typology has become the international shorthand to refer to this particular type of building (Croix et al., 2022, 97; Skre, 2007a, 214) and that is a mark of success. We would gain little from reclassifying the corpus of data, because there is such little variation amongst the houses. I propose that we turn our attention instead to undertaking a new investigation of these houses, by re-framing them not as constructions but as homes and as social constructions, as places where people lived, and as an integral part of the urban environment. This social approach to houses has a much longer pedigree in Scandinavia than in Ireland, where theoretical archaeology can still be seen as a somewhat suspicious pursuit (O’Keeffe, 2018). Traditionally, we have relied on classification and descriptive analysis of positive and negative features, the dimensions of walls, locations of hearths, numbers of houses, such as we see in Wallace’s Typology or in Lynn’s discussions of early medieval houses (Lynn, 1978, 1986, 1994).

Introduction  7 Table 1.1  The Hiberno-Norse building typology Type

Construction

1

Post-andwattle

2

3

4a

4b

5

Roof support Dublin Cork Waterford Function

Freestanding internal posts Post-andFreewattle standing internal posts Post-andFreewattle standing internal posts SunkenFreefloored standing construction internal posts SunkenLoadfloored bearing construction walls

6

Post-andwattle Sillframe

7

Stone

Unidentified Various Total

Various Loadbearing walls Loadbearing walls Various

190

15

23

Main residence

20

8

15

Residential, ancillary

15

Residential, derivative of Type 1

3

Main residence

8

Cellar, underneath main residence? Outhouses

36 14

115 387

8 45

1

Main residence

1

Main residence

0 40

Unidentified

O’Sullivan’s more recent work is wide-ranging; he combines descriptive analyses, the cultural biography of the house, and structuralist readings of entrances and orientations and public versus private space (O’Sullivan, 2008; O’Sullivan and Nicholl, 2011; O’Sullivan et al., 2017). In one of the few theoretically driven analyses of Irish early medieval houses, Jones explicitly considers the house as a social space (Jones, 2012). In Scandinavia, research on the social archaeology of the longhouse takes a much more diverse perspective. The house has been considered as a productive space (Croix, 2014, 2020a), as an assemblage (Beck, 2017, 2018), as a doorway to the Viking world (Eriksen, 2019), or indeed as a specifically urban space (Croix, 2014, 2015). If we return to Tringham’s (1995) conceptualisation of the uselife of houses, what we need to do is to move from the ‘construction’ phase of analysis through their ‘occupation’, ‘destruction’, and ‘replacement’ phases. While each of these

8 Introduction phases will tell us about the physical structure of the building at that point in time, what we want to investigate is the sum of all these phases - the “cultural construction of place and home” (ibid, 94–95). This place is the new Viking-Age town. The Town Ireland has five Viking-Age towns, towns which are reputed to have been founded during the Viking Age. These are Dublin, Cork, Waterford, Wexford, and Limerick. Each of these towns continued in use from the Viking Age to the present day, by way of Normans, medieval lordships, and as institutions of colonial power. This history means Ireland’s engagement with its urban past is tricky and has been somewhat fraught with tension. The belief that “towns were somehow alien to Irish culture” (Daly, 1986, 61) underlay much of the nationalist discourse in the 20th century. True Irish culture and society were to be found in rural Ireland, not in these “intrusive”, foreign places (Hughes, 1961, 8). In a time of intense nation-building in the middle of the 20th century, the connections between towns and our colonial past were unwelcome reminders of that past. By the 1980s, urban archaeology and histories were undergoing somewhat of a renaissance. This was partly inspired by the archaeological treasures uncovered during the Wood Quay excavations (Wallace, 2016). During this time, Irish archaeologists and historians produced a major new publication focusing on urban growth in non-Roman Europe (Clarke and Simms, 1986). Here, we see the first developments of the monastic town argument (Doherty, 1985; Swann, 1986) while there are extensive surveys of the Viking archaeology of Wood Quay (Wallace, 1985) and the planned Anglo-Norman towns (Bradley, 1986). Two new commissions were established to survey the medieval origins of our urban places: the Irish Historic Towns Atlas (IHTA) (Gearty and Clarke, 2013) and the Urban Archaeological Survey (Bradley, 2013). Crucially, these both focused on the visible urban heritage, in the form of either historical records and maps or the upstanding archaeological monuments such as town walls, churches, and castles. Of relevance here is the fact that there are no above-ground monuments from the Viking-Age levels; thus, the Urban Archaeological Survey did not engage with pre-Norman materials. And, while the IHTA does include the Viking-Age levels, these volumes are produced by historians, geographers, and cartographers rather than archaeologists. It was against this backdrop of medieval and post-medieval urban research that Wallace produced the first definitive archaeological assessment of the five Hiberno-Norse towns (Wallace, 1992a). This is very much a survey of the state of knowledge in relation to the location, layout, defences, and buildings of these towns. There is no engagement here with the idea or definition of what makes a town. In earlier discussions of the origins of Dublin, Wallace refers to towns as a distinctive type of settlement only in terms of defence and trade (Wallace, 1990, 79). These are discussions of their time; they represent the

Introduction  9 town as a fixed entity, something which could be described and classified using ‘bundles of criteria’ (cf Croix, 2020b, 116). We could make similar statements in relation to the archaeology of Norman and medieval towns in Ireland. While there have been hundreds of excavations in Norman and medieval towns (e.g. Potterton and Corlett, 2020), there is little scholarly engagement with the town as a theoretical construct and few publications of these excavations. This contrasts with the much richer urban archaeological traditions of Britain and makes it difficult to compare Dublin or Cork with the emporia and wic sites of Winchester, Hamwic, or London. Furthermore, Ireland represents ‘de novo’ urban establishment in the 9th and 10th centuries, whereas these English towns had a legacy of Roman urbanisation to shape their medieval forms. This distinction should not be underestimated. Urban archaeology forms one of the busiest sectors of developer-led archaeology. Post-excavation analysis and publication are major and ongoing issues in Irish archaeology (Royal Irish Academy, 2017, 37) and are particularly felt in relation to Viking and medieval Dublin (Clarke, 2016; Harrison, 2017). Publications of excavations in Cork and Waterford are in a stronger position, thanks to the long-term work of Maurice Hurley in both those towns (Hurley and Brett, 2014; Hurley et al., 1997). Short- and long-form publications of several Dublin excavations have appeared (particularly in Duffy’s Medieval Dublin series), but there has been little intersite or inter-town synthesis here. Research tends to focus on individual site sequences, and there is no overarching urban research agenda in Ireland. This, indeed, is a much wider problem than just for Ireland (Gaydarska, 2016; Raja and Sindbæk, 2020). Defining the Town

What is special about these houses is their context – they are found within Ireland’s first urban places, within Ireland’s first town. It is important to define here what we mean by a ‘town’ or an ‘urban place’. This should be a reasonably simple question, but it is not. In fact, as archaeologists, we have struggled to define what a town is and isn’t (Croix, 2015, 2020b, 115–116; Smith, 2020). As medievalists, we often defer to the classic definition provided by Reynolds (Griffiths, 2011, 152; O’Sullivan et al., 2021). This definition emphasises permanency, that majority of work undertaken be non-agricultural in nature and that the settlement be socially distinct from the surrounding countryside (Reynolds, 1977, ix–x). Furthermore, Reynolds emphasises that this is very much a working definition and, as such, it is not intended to include every single possible urban characteristic in every single possible situation. There is flexibility built into this, allowing a clearer recognition of the variety inherent in urban places from time to time and place to place. This variety is particularly rich in England, where we can discuss the larger sites, the emporia and wics (Hinton, 2008) and the defensive burhs (Hall, 2011), alongside a network of smaller urban places established around royal vills, minsters and ecclesiastical sites, and chartered towns (Blair, 2008).

10 Introduction These sites form a spectrum of different urban places across the 6th–12th centuries, along with earlier ‘productive sites’ and markets (Pestell, 2011). Similarly in Scandinavia, Skre distinguishes between central-place markets, local markets, nodal markets, and towns as types of markets (Skre, 2011, 337–338). He uses criteria such as seasonality or permanence, connections to elite sites, and the extent of trading networks to place each site on this continuum. This is heavily influenced by Hodges’s discussion of the three types of emporia (Hodges, 1982), and emporia continue to be the most influential type of urban place in discussions of urban development, particularly in relation to understanding of productive and trading work (Horne, 2022; Sindbæk, 2007a, 2007b, 2016). Clarke points out that it is the function of a settlement which makes the difference between a town, an urban place, and a village (Clarke, 2013, 276). In and of themselves, individual elements such as streets, markets, houses, and dedicated workshops do not qualify as urban. For Clarke, the function of a village in early medieval Europe is the production of food and drink for use and consumption within the settlement and its immediate hinterland. The function of a monastic or religious settlement is to provide “the highest level of religious devotion and observance” (ibid, 277). Clarke defines the function of a town as the redistribution of non-food objects which are imported or made locally (Clarke, 2013, 277). For Clarke, these three types of settlement represent Ireland’s continuum of urban development: the town, the village, and the monastic town. However, the archaeology shows that there is a much greater diversity of market sites and imports and exports than can be recognised in this simple scheme. However, this archaeology is untheorised (O’Sullivan et al., 2021, 247) and remains unfocussed. We could say the same of the archaeology of urbanism in pre-Norman Ireland; it is mostly untheoretical and unfocussed. We need to develop a new archaeology of urbanism in Ireland, one which takes account of the pre-development nature of this archaeology and its particular challenges and its potential. I suggest that we should adopt a similar flexibility in our conceptualisation of urban places. It is becoming clearer that, whilst Norman towns are represented by a series of defined attributes, Ireland’s pre-Norman urban places, despite Wallace’s characteristics, are not all the same. A more flexible model and understanding of attributes of pre-Norman urbanism could help us to redefine what a town in Viking Ireland was. This would focus the archaeological signatures of urbanism which are of a resolution different from the historical signatures of towns, as shown by Croix (2020b), Jervis (2016, 2021), and Wright (2019). The potential of archaeological interpretive models is different from those of historical ones, and through this book, we will use the archaeology to provide a new model of interpretation connecting the houses and their people to Ireland’s Viking-Age towns. The Household The final of our three things are the households, the people who built and occupied these houses and the town. The household is a grouping of people

Introduction  11 attached to a specific house, joined by the common bond of living under the same roof (Hanawalt, 1986, 91). They can be further bound together by common links of family, kinship, political allegiance, or behaviour (Douglass and Gonlin, 2012b, 1–2; Souvatzi, 2008, 3). A household is ‘fluid’ and ‘vibrant’ and “lays claim to a multiplicity of forms, function, and meaning” (Franklin, 2004, xiv). The exact composition of any household is difficult to define, but they generally prioritise reproduction and childhood socialisation (Allison, 2008, 1450). While what follows will appear to be a solid inventory of the Viking-Age ‘household package’, we need to acknowledge some constraints and limits to our understanding. Most importantly, we need to be aware that this package is built from sources which are based primarily around a rural geography. The contemporary documentary sources – whether legal treatises, annalistic records, or stories, myths, and legends – are based on and reflect the values and needs of that dispersed rural society, not an urbanised one (Kelly, 1988, 7). The most obvious example of this is noted by Eriksen in relation to animals forming an ‘intimate’ part of the farming household, resident in the longhouse alongside the family (Eriksen, 2019, 74). Animals played a very different role in the town; they were removed from the family and stabled in separate buildings. Studies of later medieval households, such as those of Hanawalt (1986, 1993) and Goldberg (2019), explore the centuries following the Viking Age, when both record-keeping and literacy levels were higher. We need to carefully question any assumptions of similarity in projecting later sources backwards into these Viking-Age contexts. With that said, this package provides a starting point from which to develop our understanding of the Viking-Age urban household, and we now turn to identify the main personas in that household. The Viking-Age Household

The standard Viking-Age and early medieval household feels familiar today because it is not terribly far removed from our own nuclear family structures. Most of our knowledge of households in this timeframe comes from documentary sources, including legal compendia, mythologies, and later transcriptions of sagas. These sources all suggest that the composition of a typical Viking-­ period household was kin-based and consisted of the immediate family, heterosexual male and female parents and children, created through marriage, and its associated dependents (Brink, 2008; Christiansen, 2006, 48; Croix, 2014; ­Sawyer and Sawyer, 1993, 169–170). This same framework applies to the early medieval Irish household (Kelly, 1988). These were heavily gendered roles, with normative expectations of masculine and feminine behaviours, appearances, and identities (Price, 2020, 156). This narrative centres men at the head of the household while women are providers of care, food, children, or even clothing – an image derived from Victorian ideals of the ‘happy housewife’ (Moen, 2020a, 625). In the context of Christian Ireland, this household composition is indicative of the wider unfolding of patriarchal Christian norms and ideals in the early

12 Introduction medieval world. This is more clearly evidenced in contemporary legal texts which place men in dominant roles within the context of the tuath (tribe) or derbfine (kin group) (Kelly, 1988). I mention this because it has a direct relevance to how the early medieval household is used unquestioningly as a reference point in contemporary archaeological interpretations (e.g. Lynn and McDowell, 2011b, 591; O’Sullivan et al., 2021, 101–102). While Kelly’s translations are valuable, many of his interpretations are very much products of their time. Indeed, Kelly takes such a dim view of the role of women in pre-Christian Ireland that he considers that ‘[t]he influence of the Church must have helped to raise the status of women in early Irish society’ (Kelly, 1988, 77). Certainly, the prevailing view today would be that the Catholic Church has done no such thing for women in Ireland. If we turn to the most recent survey of medieval Ireland, it is disappointing to see women referenced in relation to their marriageability, sexual status, legal inferiority, maternal roles, and work as textile workers (Stout, 2017, 101–103). Clearly, there is much room here for improvement. Beginning with the role of head of the household, recent research into the roles of men and women has gone in two directions. Whilst Hadley (2008) and Ashby (2014) have reframed some of our conceptions about masculinities and male work practices in the Viking Age, the male warrior persona still dominates our frame of reference (Barrett, 2008; Raffield, 2019a; Raffield et al., 2017). Alongside this are new interpretations and reinterpretations of women warriors such as found in Gardeła (2021), Price et al. (2019), and (Raffield, 2017). These are joined by Friðriksdóttir’s Valkyrie (2020), which, despite its evocative title and cover image of a weapon-bearing women, goes some way in providing a more rounded view of women in the Viking Age. Since Jesch’s classic work Women in the Viking Age appeared (Jesch, 1991), there have been many studies of Viking-Age women with varying degrees of success (e.g. Bitel, 1996; Dommasnes, 1991, 2008; Jochens, 1995, 2002; Kershaw, 2013; McAlister, 2003; McAllister, 2008; McLeod, 2011; Price et al., 2019; Raffield, 2017; Sikora, 2010). Eriksen (2019, 70) relates this to the ‘add women and stir’ approach of the 1990s. These Viking-Age women were multifaceted characters, alternately full of agency or denied their own agency. These interpretations of Viking-Age women emblematise the complex and competing identities of the Viking world, and the difficulties involved in reconstructing this world are many, but they are not insurmountable, particularly if we follow the material rather than our biases (Moen, 2020a, 629). Viking-Age children are reasonably visible in the archaeological record, particularly because they have their own set of material culture – smaller clothes and shoes as well as toys (Lewis-Simpson, 2008c; McAlister, 2003, 2013; Ní Chonaill, 2009; Thedeen, 2009). In the countryside, children worked on the farm, herding animals, tending to crops and undertaking daily work around the yard (Kelly, 1997, 451). In the towns, there are fewer animals and crops to care for. Even if children were still performing some of these tasks, it was not to the same scale as in a fully agricultural setting. This gives space for

Introduction  13 children to adapt other activities or pursuits, perhaps formally (learning crafts or helping around the house) or informally (playing or socialising with peers). This would necessitate a shift in the organisation of childhood education away from farming towards manufacture, trade, or service provision and a gradual increase in emphasis on literacy (Hanawalt, 1993, 82). In a more traditional ‘Viking’ context, Raffield explored the role of play in encouraging ‘martial activities’ for Viking boys (Raffield, 2019a), emphasising the lifelong impact of childhood practices. As children grew older, apprenticeships to specific crafts or trades would have become more common, an evolution of the practice of fosterage. Teenagers and unmarried young adults also comprised part of the household, but, unlike children, they do not possess a distinctive material culture. They would have performed the same tasks as adults (Lewis-Simpson, 2008a, 3–4), and they are less ‘focused’; in fact, young women are not ‘focused’ at all. Very simply, girls remained at home and in the background until marriage. This may have occurred a little earlier in Irish society at the onset of puberty (Cosgrove, 1994), but in Scandinavia, girls often waited some years between betrothal and marriage (Price, 2020, 109). In both Ireland and Scandinavia, polygyny seems to have been reasonably common (as well as concubinage, in Scandinavia, ibid, 111–114; Kenny, 2006; Ó Corráin, 1985). The young adult males who constitute the 9th- and 10th-century ‘Viking’ warrior burials, strong well-built men in their teens and twenties, stand in stark contrast to this. They would have been very visible within the town, under the control of a shipmaster or captain (or occasionally not under control), with their weapons and companions. There are very different views of young adult males in the Berrad Airechta, an early medieval Irish legal text, which notes that there are three different grades of macc béoathar or ‘son of a living father’ (Kelly, 1988, 80–81). These are sons who are still under their fathers’ control, sons who are outlawed, or sons who are independent and able to make contracts, including marriage, in their own right. At a wider societal level, this tells us that it was common for unmarried sons to remain living in the family home. At the other end of the age spectrum, we see the presence of elderly members of the household (Lewis-Simpson, 2008b; Sigurdsson, 2008). Grandmothers hold a special authority over grandchildren in the Sagas (Ricketts, 2008), perhaps reflecting the more dangerous or less cautious life choices of saga males who regularly meet untimely deaths. O’Sullivan similarly suggests an important role for matriarchs in the Irish household (O’Sullivan, 2008, 236). Although Hanawalt’s sources are from the 13th century, her work shows that as many as one in ten households could be headed by widows, again demonstrating the longevity of women (1986, 93). The intersections of age, reputation, and wisdom are also worth considering. While some elderly women, such as Unn the Deep-Minded (Jesch, 1991, 194–195) or the seeresses and witches like those buried at Fyrkat and Peel (Price, 2019, 84–120), were held in high regard, others will not have been. Caring roles extend to persons of ‘unsound mind’ as detailed in another 8th-century Irish legal text – the Do Brethaib Gaire. Here, the scribe sets out the

14 Introduction kin’s obligation to care for elderly family members, the blind, the deaf, and the sick, progressing to obligations to those with mental health conditions (Kelly, 1988, 271). Other categories of people who are mentioned as requiring extra care include epileptics and persons with manic and violent behaviours. Only in rare situations can we see evidence for care of such persons in the archaeological record (Bohling et al., 2022; Powell et al., 2017). Also invisible to us are the interstices between the immediate family and other members of the extended family (grandparents, aunts or uncles, and foster children) or household structure (servants or slaves, apprentices, or even friends) (see Brink, 2008; Doyle, 1998; Skre, 2001; Valante, 2008). While slavery was certainly a feature of Viking-Age Ireland and Scandinavia, not least through the presence of enslaved people as commodities (Brink, 2021; Ellis, 2018; Fontaine, 2017; Holm, 1986; Raffield, 2019b), we simply have no idea if enslaved people were commonly maintained as part of the urban household. Enslaved people were predominantly a feature of an agricultural way of life (Valante, 2008, 87), performing heavy or undesirable work around the farm. Much of the work undertaken within the town is of a different nature: it is the manipulation of raw materials into finished products or the provision of services. This is work with a productive value which, in due course, would become economically protected via guilds and trade secrets. This work seems to have been organised at a household level, and certain elements of the work were probably delegated to reliable members of the household, either direct family members or apprentices or junior craftsmen. There are some circumstances where it is easier to envisage the presence of enslaved people. We could consider households whose productive work and economic survival involved hard manual labour similar to agricultural labour (e.g. tanning leather and transporting building materials). Alternatively, maintaining enslaved people may have been a mark of status and wealth. However, we do not know where these enslaved people lived or how they would be fed and cared for. The other possibility is that some households employed servants to supplement the household labour pool. Hanawalt (1986, 163–168) considers that, by the 14th century, servants were hired on a year-round basis or as needed. Servants were often considered part of the household, and their work and loyalty were rewarded with meals, wages, and potentially a roof over their head. They were remembered in bequests and sometimes married into the family. In early medieval Irish texts, the idea of working for pay is a common feature of 9th-century texts (Kelly, 1997, 442–445). Within the domestic sphere, rather than out on the farm, servants would have been under the control of the rechtaire (steward). The Viking equivalent is the húskarl or housecarl. The húskarl was treated as a member of the household, part of the family, but servants or enslaved people may not have been. Generally, we presume that households who lived in towns contained fewer members than their rural counterparts (Walton Rogers, 2020, 114). This is driven partly by the size differential between urban and rural houses. The typical Irish Type 1 house has a floor area of about 40 m2, whereas rural

Introduction  15 roundhouses in Ireland have floor areas of 50–78 m2 (O’Sullivan et al., 2021, 90). As we saw earlier, Viking longhouses can be much larger than this (Fallgren, 2008, 67). This differential also feeds into our reliance on architectural determinism – assessing household size based on investment in architecture and requirements for this space for other (revenue-generating) requirements such as shop premises (Hanawalt, 1986, 92). Another issue to consider is the influence of the later medieval nuclear family structure which takes the married couple and their children as its base (Gilchrist, 2012, 114). This consciously excludes multigenerational living and households where multiple familial generations live within the same building (Hanawalt, 1986, 92). Multigenerational housesholds appear to be comparatively rare in medieval English contexts, this is supported by documentary records noting widows and widowers making provision for their own care in retirement by arranging co-living arrangements, generally with an anticipated surviving lifespan of up to a decade (Hanawalt, 1986, 231–232). Indeed, it seemed more common that such arrangements would be entered into with unrelated parties rather than with one’s own children. However, both Irish and Scandinavian societies showed a preference for ancestral longhouses and roundhouses (see Chapter 2) which may paint a different picture here. The assumption is that the regular replacement of house structures and maintained property boundaries reflect, to some degree, generational changes within the family. Ancestral homes imply a long tradition of multigenerational living, and perhaps this may not have changed in these urban situations. Furthermore, while we recognise that the standard nuclear family was the dominant household form, it was not representative of all households. Brink (2008, 28) notes that there may have been different types of households that were not kin-based, perhaps groups of warriors living in barracks (­Christiansen, 2006, 52–58), or, in Christian contexts, religious communities of single-sex monks or nuns. We also need to account for the presence of fleets of sailors and the spaces (and resources) which they would occupy in the town (Holm, 1986, 2015). It is difficult to confirm the existence of non-nuclear family households from an archaeological perspective, but it is important to consider their potential presence. The dynamics of household reproduction also has a direct bearing here, in terms of both reproduction of the flesh and blood members of the family and where and how new households were established in new homes after marriage or other rites of coupling (Douglass and Gonlin, 2012b, 15). These questions directly impact our understanding of urban populations, densities of occupation, and consequently the demands for goods and services in the town. An Archaeology of the Urban Household

These households were closely linked to their physical spaces, their house. We see this in the attachment to the longhouse package, the idea of ancestral homes, and the re-building of houses in the same location. We can explore that

16 Introduction household through the physical remains of the houses by using household archaeology perspectives. Today, household archaeology is an incredibly vibrant, fluid, and active field of research. It developed during the 1970s and 1980s as a somewhat marginal field, developed from “sociocultural anthropological theory” derived from “ethnographic framework” (Douglass and Gonlin, 2012b, 1–2). Household archaeology recognises the household, whatever its individual composition, as the basic unit of social organisation (Beaudry, 2004, 254). Early household archaeologies were often situated in historical contexts where the combination of archaeological and historical sources allowed a deep dive into these historical households (Beaudry, 2015; Deetz, 1996; ­Flannery, 1976; G ­ lassie, 1975). The archaeology of the household is intrinsically linked to its domestic sphere, its physical setting within the house, and its daily spaces (Buchli, 2010; Carpenter and Prentiss, 2022; Robin, 2003). The close connection of household and its materiality (Beaudry, 2015, 5–7) have enabled us to expand household archaeologies into historical and pre-historical worlds. The variety and depth of these archaeologies come together in collective works such as Allison, 1999; Barile and Brandon, 2004; Carpenter and Prentiss, 2022; Douglass and Gonlin, 2012a; Godino and Madella, 2013; and Samson, 1990. Wilk and Rathje’s “Household Archaeology” (Wilk and Rathje, 1982) provided the first explicit “theory of household organisation” (ibid, 620). Their analysis was heavily deterministic and relied on theories of causality, environmental and economic determinism, and positivism to explain patterning, variation, and similarities in the material culture of households. In contrast, ­Allison argued that household approaches should move away from productive/ consumer ideals and that they hold most promise in relation to the social relationships of age, gender, and status as situated within the physical space of the household (Allison, 1999, 2). Hendon also calls out the roles of personal and interpersonal relationships within the household and puts particular emphasis on social (caring) and economic relations (crafting) (Hendon, 1996). These household relationships are emphasised by the collection of Lacey and Prentiss, who position themselves in opposition to those earlier, deterministic or economically oriented investigations (Carpenter and Prentiss, 2022, ‘Defining the Household’ section). Souvatzi defines the household as “a process rather than a thing” (Souvatzi, 2008, 20), expanding on Allison’s discussion of agency and agencies in the formulation of household (Allison, 1999, 15). Souvatzi emphasises the complex nature of household archaeology (Souvatzi, 2008, 46), its multiplicity of relationships and ability to move from micro- to macroscales of analysis. This idea of scalar analysis permeates the collections of Prentiss and Carpenter and of Douglas and Gonlin. The latter tie questions of consumer and producer behaviours to individual and community scales of analysis of such behaviours. Household archaeologies often encounter inequalities, whether based around gender, age, class, or another intersection such as inequalities of consumption

Introduction  17 (Allison, 2008, 1450; Tringham, 1991, 1995, 2001). Households can be conceptualised as assemblages and networks of connections, allowing us to interrogate that fluidity and acknowledge their multiplicity of meaning (Beck, 2018; Salazar et al., 2022). Building this Book Despite, or perhaps because of, the great variety of approaches to household archaeology, I have found one particular article most helpful. This is a very short introduction, almost a ‘how to’ guide of how to embark upon an archaeology of the household (Hendon, 2007). In this, Hendon argues that any household analysis needs to be built around four pillars of investigation: multiple scales of analysis, from individual houses to neighbourhoods to communities and beyond; the materiality of the domestic; the variability of the dataset; and the day-to-day experience of households. These are the pillars which permeate and underpin this work. They will allow us to move through the archaeology of these houses from the microscale of individual houses to the macroscale of the entire town. We will look at the materiality of the houses, what they were made from, how they were made, how they were used, and how they varied from site to site and across time (Part  1). We explore how these houses changed and evolved and how they structured the life of the household and of the town (Part 2). At the heart of this work, we consider how the household – the people who lived in these towns – ­experienced their homes and their worlds and what this can tell us about life in Ireland’s first towns (Part 3). One of the main obstacles in undertaking a review of Viking-Age settlement in Ireland is that there has been limited comparative analysis across the country. The majority of the archaeological evidence comes from commercial archaeological excavations which operate under a range of constraints (O’Sullivan et al., 2021, especially Chapter 2). It can be difficult for individual excavators to move outside the windows of their own individual excavations and create synthetic overviews. The exceptions to this are Simpson’s city-wide overviews of excavation carried out in Dublin city centre between 1970 and 2010 (Simpson, 2000, 2011), but these, obviously, do not include any sites outside that city centre. To address this issue, Chapters 2 and 3 present a unified narrative of VikingAge housing and settlement in Ireland moving from the 9th through to the 12th century. We begin by considering the evidence presented for 9th-century settlement in the form of the longphort (temporary ship camps) and from a handful of isolated rural settlements. The discussion moves to the function of the longphort, and I make particular reference to Annagassan and Woodstown before turning our attention to Dublin. I argue that the totality of evidence for 9th-century Dublin should be investigated using the concept of permanence as developed at Kaupang and Ribe. There is evidence of infrastructural works (including river reclamation works, streets and roads, defensive banks, and

18 Introduction property boundaries), recognisably urban housing, and clear evidence for a diverse household population in the artefact assemblages. Together, all these elements indicate that 9th-century Dublin is indeed a permanent place of settlement, and intention and function are inherent from its earliest levels. Chapter 3 follows the narrative of settlement from the 10th to the 12th centuries, discussing the expansion of these markers of permanence and ‘urban maturity’. Beginning with Dublin, we look at the growth and expansion of settlement in the 10th and 11th centuries. Then we see how, during the second half of the 11th century, the first organised properties, land reclamation processes, enclosing walls, and post-and-wattle houses appear in Waterford and Cork. The problem here lies in comparing the scale and extent of evidence from Dublin with the more limited evidence from Cork and Waterford. These towns, in contrast to Dublin, show more variety in their architecture as new styles of architecture appear during the 12th century. These comparative levels are missing from Dublin, but what we do see is that 12th-century Dublin expands outside the walls of the town with the first suburban housing developments. At the end of the 12th century, we also see evidence for variety in architectural forms again, with the introduction of a new style of sunken-floored structure – most likely multi-storey buildings with cellars – and earth-fast buildings. Chapter 4 discusses the material evidence of the house itself, its construction and ground plan and considers how these different structural elements might have shaped the day-to-day experiences of the household. These three chapters form Part 1, the detailed exploration of the houses themselves. In Part 2, Chapters 5, 6, and 7, we turn to how we can find the households in this dataset. Chapter 5 presents an artefact distribution study at Fishamble Street, focusing on the microscale and day-to-day life of the household. It discusses how these artefacts can be integrated into analyses of households, people, and work practices using nine houses from Fishamble Street. The activities which immediately spring to mind are productive ones such as amber working or wood turning, but these disguise the background presence of a whole suite of other activities – maintenance activities. These activities – cooking, cleaning, and caring – are less visible. They are carried out predominantly by women, but without them, society falls apart. These maintenance activities are vital ones, and integrating them here enables us to reconsider the balance of gendered work practices in the Viking-Age urban household. Chapter 6 shifts between the microscale of individual houses and the macroscale of sets of houses. Using access analysis, we look at how entrances, exits, and boundaries structure and control the movements of people in and around these houses. Previous applications of access analysis to Viking-Age housing has highlighted a potential ‘cultural genotype’, a specifically ‘Viking’ way of arranging space. This analysis suggests that, while there are some resemblances in the patterns visible in these urban houses, we may gain more value from considering these as ‘urban’ patterns rather than simplistic ethnic ones. ­Chapter 7 shifts the scale of analysis again, back towards the wider perspective

Introduction  19 of Chapter 4. This chapter takes as its premise that the household not just occupies an individual building but will make use of all the spaces around it and available to it. In this urban context, this space is neatly delimited by boundary fences and streetfronts and contains different elements from pits to fences to paths as well as the buildings themselves. It discusses the evolution of the properties across all three towns, concluding that, while the buildings themselves are in a state of constant change, it is the properties and their pathways that create a sense of place and familial or household link to the new environment of the town. This shift in scale positions us to move outwards to the scale of the town for the final discussion of the town itself, the urban community, and the creation of the urban identity in Part 3. Using a series of reconstruction drawings of houses and streets from Dublin, Chapter 8 moves along the continuum of the urban environment from outside the town, right into the household itself. It discusses the archaeological evidence for some of the features of the urban environment which would have been familiar to the 11th- and 12th-century residents of Dublin, Cork, or Waterford. We consider the role of roads and rivers, the hinterland and urban– rural relationships, the existence of boundaries, and the nature of the street and the urban habitat. It moves progressively into the microscale of the properties and immediate household space, before turning to a discussion of the nature of the urban community and household. These three parts come together in the conclusion to discuss how these houses shaped and created Ireland’s first urban world. It tells a new story of how these houses worked as homes and as the spaces within which each household could react and respond to the busy urban world outside their doors. The house is more than just a construction, it is a home.

Part 1

The Houses

2

Ireland’s 9th-Century Viking-Age Settlements

Introduction The story of Viking-Age settlement in Ireland develops across a long time frame, from the 9th to the 12th century (Map 2.1). On the one hand, we have the towns of Dublin, Cork, and Waterford, with their streets, their houses, and their properties. These are reasonably straightforward to describe and classify, and they come to the fore in the 11th and 12th centuries. On the other hand, we have some sites which do not fit into this picture and are significantly earlier than this, clearly indicating a phase of 9th-century settlement in Ireland. These are the longphort sites, the sites of the ship camps and ‘Viking’ raiders of the 9th century: Woodstown, Annagassan, and Dublin. These are accompanied by a scattering of settlement sites, predominantly on the coasts of ­Ireland, which may or may not represent dispersed and rural ‘Viking’ settlement. These are less well preserved than their urban counterparts, and a further difficulty lies in their dating, which usually rests on broad-brush artefact chronologies rather than scientific dates. Despite this, the houses found at these sites represent an initial diversity in their architecture; there are sunken-floored structures, longhouse buildings, and the first post-and-wattle Type 1 houses. The story these houses can tell us is one of complexity, intention, and permanence. Rural Settlement We begin with the evidence for dispersed rural settlement in the 9th century. Five excavated sites here are the subject of an ongoing discussion over the nature of their ‘Viking’ or Scandinavian activity (O’Sullivan et al., 2021, 134–137). These are Truska, Co. Galway (Keeley Gibbons and Kelly, 2003), Bray Head, Co. Kerry (the Bray Head excavations remain unpublished but see preliminary reports by Hayden, 1995, 1998, 2000, 2001, 2013), Beginish, Co. Kerry (O’Kelly, 1956; Sheehan et al., 2001), Rinnaraw, Co. Donegal (Comber et al., 2006), and Cherrywood, Co. Dublin (Ó Néill, 2006). To this list, O’Sullivan and colleagues added sites at Ninch, Co. Dublin and Shandon, Co. Waterford. There has been lively discussion over the merits and demerits of each of these DOI: 10.4324/9781003039006-3

24  The Houses

Map 2.1 Map of key sites. Map data © 2021, Google, Data SIO, NOAA, U.S. Navy, NGA, GEBCO, Image Landsat/Copernicus.

sites (Boyd,  2015b; Gibbons and Gibbons, 2008a, b; Keeley Gibbons and Kelly, 2003; Sheehan et al., 2001). The caveat is that none of these sites has a tight chronology; they all broadly date to between the 9th and 12th centuries. They display a mix of artefactual, placename, and architectural contextual evidence but little in the way of substantial archaeological evidence. The debate over the degree of ‘Viking’ or Scandinavian influence at these sites will continue (­Figure 2.1).

Ireland’s 9th-Century Viking-Age Settlements  25

Figure 2.1 House plans from excavated rural settlement sites. Note the variety of building shapes and construction methods here: a) Structure 1, the possible longhouse at Cherrywood, Co. Dublin. After O’Neill, 2006, Figure 4. b) Structures 2 and 3, Cherrywood, Co. Dublin. Note the alignments of the buildings, almost as if they are enclosed within property boundaries represented by the dashed lines. After Ó Néill (2006), Figure 8. c)  Rinnaraw, Co. Donegal. Note the hearth and internal revetment. After Comber (2006), Figure 10. d) Beginish, Co. Kerry. There is a large central hearth and no internal divisions. After O’Kelly (1956), Figure 1.

However, at two sites – Cherrywood, Co. Dublin and Rinnaraw, Co. ­ onegal – the archaeological evidence has more potential (Figure 2.1a, b, c). D Although there is no precise chronology at either site, the dating profile strongly indicated that both had a 9th-century phase of occupation. Both display possible links to Scotland and Scandinavia. At Rinnaraw, this took the

26  The Houses form of evidence for cod fishing and trough querns, both of which have parallels in Scandinavian Scotland (Barrett, 1997; Comber et al., 2006, 105). The layout of Rinnaraw’s rectangular stone house is unlike that of other early medieval houses in northern Ireland (Jones, 2012, 157) and has its closest ­parallels at Buckquoy in Orkney (Comber et al., 2006, 106). At Cherrywood, Ó Néill excavated a substantial building with ‘apparent bow-sided, roof supporting outer walls’ (Ó Néill, 1999, 2000, 2006, 84), which he likened to traditional S ­ candinavian longhouses. One of the handful of artefacts – a whalebone plaque – also has parallels in Orkney (ibid, 81). On balance, the architecture at both sites has more in common with Scandinavian, or at least North Atlantic/ Scandinavian, activity than to contemporary Irish roundhouses. There appears to be a strong non-Irish influence at both these sites which, in a 9th-­century, context strongly suggests a degree of Scandinavian influence (Boyd, 2015b, 340–341). These two sites may hint at small-scale attempts to establish a way of life similar to that found in Orkney, Shetland, and the North Atlantic in the 9th and 10th centuries. There, the building of longhouses is a primordial statement of ‘Viking’ origins and affiliation on the part of the household in the North Atlantic (Barrett, 2003, 98; Boyd, 2015b, 343–345; Larsen and Stummann Hansen, 2001, 117; Milek, 2006, 149–151). The mimicry of features of longhouse architecture and its associated material culture at Rinnaraw and Cherrywood may hint at a similar process of settlement in 9th-century Ireland. Architectural parallels, on their own, are not enough to indicate Viking influence at a settlement (Boyd, 2015b, 343). However, the combination of evidence at Rinnaraw and Cherrywood makes a stronger case for re-assessing early medieval rural sites across Ireland for parallels to contemporary Viking settlement across the North Atlantic. The Longphort The second type of site found outside the urban centres is the longphort or ship camp. The term longphort (plural longphuirt) refers to a series of temporary fortifications which were constructed to protect Viking fleets in the middle of the 9th century (Maas, 2008). Maas argues convincingly that the longphort represents a new feature in the Irish landscape (ibid, 260). Their English parallels are the winter camp sites of the Great Army, at Repton, Foremark, Torksey, and ARSNY. These are 12 suggested longphuirt sites (Kelly, 2015), four of which have excavated. Two of these are convincing: Annagassan, Co. Louth (Clinton, 2014) and Woodstown, Co. Waterford (Russell and Hurley, 2014). A third site – Knoxspark, Co. Sligo – was excavated (Kelly, 2015, 71–75), but the nature of the evidence here is, at best, inconclusive (Harrison and Ó Floinn, 2014, 642). The final longphort is, of course, the longphort of Dublin. Geophysical survey and targeted excavations at Annagassan identified this as the site of Linn Duachaill, a longphort mentioned in the Annals of Ulster

Ireland’s 9th-Century Viking-Age Settlements  27 between 841 and 852 (Clinton, 2014; Kelly, 2015, 77–843; Simpson, 2012, 105–107). The longphort was established in 841 in close proximity to a 7th-­ century monastic foundation attributed to St. Colman (Clinton, 2013, 31; Kelly, 2015, 77). The insertion of a raiding camp by this church hastened its demise, and the monastic site went out of use shortly after the new neighbours appeared (Clinton, 2013, 31). The enclosure measures as much as 1.18 km in length, which is extraordinarily large (Simpson, 2012, 110). Excavations uncovered a ditch, metalworking surfaces, and an assortment of pits, drains, postholes, and cobbled surfaces but no structural remains. On the contrary, the geophysical survey indicates that large areas inside the enclosure remained open and unbuilt during occupation (Clinton, 2014, 128). At winter camps in England, tents, booths, or other ephemeral structures may have been used to house the armies (Cooijmans, 2021, 198; Hadley and Richards, 2021, 96), and these would leave few archaeological traces. Alternatively, these open spaces could have acted as animal paddocks and crop fields (Kelly, 2015, 84). Some form of agricultural work may have been part of the longphort package (­Cooijmans, 2021, 192, Hadley and Richards, 2021, 200), enabling longer-term occupation which would align with Annagassan’s decade-long lifespan. The second longphort, Woodstown, Co. Waterford, was discovered during a motorway construction scheme (Russell and Hurley, 2014; Simpson, 2012). The site may have been in use for half a century or more, beginning in the mid-9th century (Hurley and Russell, 2014, 347). A pair of D-shaped enclosures on the river’s edge marked out an internal area which was 460 m long and 150 m wide. There are no traces of prehistoric or earlier medieval activity at Woodstown; this was unclaimed land. The entrance to the enclosures was marked by a high-status furnished burial – the Woodstown Warrior (­Harrison, 2014). Less than 5% of the site was excavated at the time with the remainder preserved while the motorway was re-routed. These excavations revealed large ditches, metalled surfaces, pits, drains, and postholes. The artefacts include 42 pieces of silver, 217 lead weights, ships nails, metalworking debris, knives, and other (inorganic) objects such as crucible sherds, glass, and amber. One building was identified here, a subrectangular house with bowed walls which the excavators consider without parallel in Irish, British, Scandinavian, or North Atlantic contexts (Russell and Hurley, 2014, 350). It was constructed within foundation trenches, but the method of construction of its bowed walls is unclear. The doorway is located in the southern wall, clay spreads indicate internal floor surfaces, but there is no hearth (ibid, 73–76). Alignments of post and stake holes and possible floor surfaces uncovered elsewhere within the enclosure indicate that there may be more structures within the enclosure. There are no annalistic references to Viking activity at Woodstown itself (Hurley, 2014b, 356), although a Waterford-based fleet of Vikings was active in the 850s and 860s (Barry, 1997, 13). It is not clear when exactly or why Woodstown was abandoned (ibid, 356–367), but one possibility is that the focus of activity moved to the location of the future town of Waterford. There are early

28  The Houses 10th-century references to the Vikings of Waterford (in 914, Barry, 1997, 13), but the earliest archaeological activity in Waterford’s town centre is late 10th century (see Chapter 3). Such continuity and discontinuity in settlement location occur in Scandinavian urban places where 8th- and 9th-century centres like Birka and Kaupang do not continue into the 10th and 11th centuries (Hilllerdal, 2010, 505–506; Skre, 2011, 448–449). Instead, they are supplanted by new urban centres like Trondheim and Sigtuna, which were established by royal decree. This is not the situation in Waterford, and the reason behind Woodstown’s demise may never become clear. The Function of the Longphort?

Williams has considered at length the economic roles which Irish longphuirt and their English equivalents, the winter camps, played in the Viking world (2013, 2015, 2020). He argues that these sites are best conceived as temporary settlements, combining military functions with exchange functions, productive functions or both. The relationships of the longphort with their hinterlands are key as hinterland provides food and water, building materials, and everyday supplies to sustain the raiders (Cooijmans, 2021, 191–194; Williams, 2013, 19). The nature of these temporary settlements is such that once these local supplies are exhausted, the raiders move on. Depending on the relationships between the longphort and the local households, this cycle of resource procurement may be completed over a single season, perhaps in violence, or over several seasons, in a more peaceful relationship. Certain features of urban life, such as dispensing justice and assigned living spaces, would not have been unfamiliar; Williams calls this the ‘urban flavour’ of the longphuirt (Williams, 2013, 19). The longphort is, in Williams view, ‘pre-urban’ in nature (Williams, 2015, 102). Hadley and Richards (2021, 110–113) make a similar point in relation to the winter camps: that they may have had streets and districts, even without permanent structures. However, Williams reflects that there may be different degrees of “centralised authority and economic control” (Williams, 2020, 138) at different camps, citing the differences here between ASRNY and Torksey. Valante suggests that an emporia or gateway community label is appropriate for several longphuirt which functioned as both trading and raiding sites (Valante, 2008, 8–51). Emporia are trading and settlement sites which act as nodal points within extensive (usually maritime) exchange networks (Hodges, 1982, Chapter 3; Sindbæk, 2016, 556–557). Emporia sites embrace long distance distributive and productive work as a function. They represent meeting places for procurers of raw materials, artisans, and traders and for those who transform those raw materials into finished products for distribution (Ashby and Sindbæk, 2020, 8–12; Hodges, 1982). Typical emporia sites have hundreds, if not thousands, of artefacts ranging from tools to moulds, offcuts and fragments, broken pieces, and trial pieces. At Ribe, as elsewhere, there is evidence of multiple different craftworkers utilising many different materials

Ireland’s 9th-Century Viking-Age Settlements  29 (Croix et al., 2019; Sindbæk, 2022a). There was undoubtedly metalworking at Woodstown (Young, 2014), but there is not yet sufficient evidence of the scale of associated craftwork as we see at Ribe. The artefact assemblage suggests that there may have been glass-working on site, this comes from three glass drops and seven fragments of glass cullet, only one of which came from a secure context (Cropper, 2014, 284–285). Similarly, there are just seven amber fragments from the site, and only one of them indicated potential amber-­ working on site (Harvey, 2014, 287). The soils at Woodstown were highly acidic, resulting in very poor survival of organic materials (Hurley and Russell, 2014, 9), meaning there are further gaps in the artefact (and ecofact) assemblages. As a result, there is minimal archaeological evidence of activities such as textile production, cooking activities, or personal care. Even allowing for the representative sample of excavating just 5% of the site, the evidence so far at Woodstown does not match the scale of evidence at Ribe or Kaupang. A common factor linking all the longphuirt is their engagements with local resources and supplies. Strategies to manage the demand and consumption for these resources are essential parts of urban life at Ribe and other early emporia sites (Ashby et al., 2015, 696–697). Unfortunately, neither Woodstown nor Annagassan (Gilligan and O’Donnell, 2020) had good organic preservation of organic materials, which restricts our abilities to address questions around engagement with local environment and resources. If we turn to the final 9th-century settlement – Dublin – there is one artefact category which presents us with a slightly different perspective. That is the discovery of haemetite and slag in Temple Bar West 9th-century levels, indicating that iron smelting and metal production occurred here (Stillman et al., 2003). The closest source of haematite is in the Wicklow mountains (Simpson, 2002, 2011, 30), a distance of some 20 km. The question then arises as to whether or not the people living and producing metal at Temple Bar West were engaging with local resource knowledge, procurement partners, and strategies? Or does this activity represent a newly arrived activity; are these Viking craftsmen bringing their ores with them (Simpson, 2010b, 82)? The Dublin Longphort The longphort at Dublin has been the subject of extensive discussions. (See Clarke et al., 1998 for summaries of these up until the 1990s; Simpson, 2010b provides a more recent synthesis of the archaeological and historical data.) Historical references to Viking-Age settlement at Dublin date from 834, when the Annals of Clonmacnoise refer to “the first taking and possession of the Danes in Dublin” (Murphy, 1896, 136). A second reference in 838, again in the Annals of Clonmacnoise, talks of a fort at Dublin (ibid, 138). These are followed by the comments from the Annals of Ulster in 841/842 noting that “the heathens are still at Dublin” (Mac Airt and Mac Niocaill, 1983, 301). Thus, this overwintering follows eight years of sporadic activity in this location. Prior to the 1990s, this was a somewhat academic discussion as little

30  The Houses archaeological evidence had been uncovered for any 9th-century settlement (Ó Floinn, 1998, 195), despite the extensive antiquarian finds of furnished burials in Islandbridge, Kilmainham, and elsewhere around the city centre. A pair of excavations carried out by Linzi Simpson have revealed the most extensive archaeological evidence for 9th century Dublin, revealing two sets of very different archaeological remains at the Black Pool and Temple Bar West. Unlike Woodstown, the Dublin longphort was established within a landscape which already contained several 8th- and 9th-century features. Pre-­ Viking settlement in the Dublin area seems to be resolved into two clusters, known by different names (Clarke, 2002, 1–2). There was a settlement at or near Atha Cliath (the Ford of the Hurdles) and a further, ecclesiastical nucleus, the monastic enclosure known as Duiblinn. In this, the Dublin longphort bears more similarities with Annagassan, which also was established in close proximity to a monastic site (Simpson, 2012, 108–109). Dublin was also the location where four of Ireland’s major highways converged, linking Dublin Bay to the west and north of the country (Clarke, 2002, 1–2). Archaeological evidence for pre-Viking Dublin is limited but present (Simpson, 2010b, 2011 provides comprehensive overviews of the relevant excavations). A range of archaeological deposits excavated at Golden Lane identify this as the site of the church of St Michael le Pole, a pre-Norman ecclesiastical focus (O’Donovan, 2008). The earliest pits are assigned dates from 600 to 700 AD, whilst the associated graveyard contains inhumations dating from 700 to 1200. Work by Clare Walsh at Chancery Lane uncovered sections of pre-10th-century roadways which align with the route of the Slighe Dála (Simpson, 2011, 27; Walsh, 2009), corroborating the historical references to this roadway. To date, only one building dates to the decades prior to the Viking arrival (Simpson, 2002, 47–49). Structure N, from Level 2, Temple Bar West is an unusual subrectangular structure that, as yet, has no Irish parallels. It survived as a series of double lines of postholes and has an entrance in its southern wall. Its central hearth had several small postholes, perhaps to support a cooking spit. Simpson suggested that Structure N may have Anglo-Saxon parallels, based on resemblances to a 5th/6th-century building from Mucking-Lingford, a bone comb with Romano-British parallels, and an early radiocarbon date (Simpson, 1999, 10). The posthole fills included degraded wood which probably represented posts left in situ (Simpson, 2002,49) and produced radiocarbon dates between 780 and 890 (Simpson, 1999, 1). Structure N was abandoned prior to the mid-9th century, and a layer of soil accumulated above it, indicating that this piece of ground was not occupied. Much of our understanding of 9th-century Dublin is dominated by its extensive gravefields containing 81 furnished burials. In total, one quarter of all Viking-Age furnished burials from Ireland and Britain are found here, a staggering number and concentration (Harrison and Ó Floinn, 2014, 223–228). This dominance is difficult to escape but focusing exclusively on these burials risks perpetuating an outsider or foreign narrative. This narrative emphasises the Viking arrival and their immediate impacts on the physical and political

Ireland’s 9th-Century Viking-Age Settlements  31 landscapes (e.g. Downham, 2008; Harrison, 2013; Harrison and Ó Floinn, 2014; Russell and Hurley, 2014). At the same time, less attention has been paid to the contemporary 9th-century settlement evidence which, while less impressive in nature, is equally important. The same diversionary focus occurs in Anglo-Saxon archaeology where exceptional burials like Sutton Hoo take precedence over the settlement record (Wright, 2019, 537). However, this is short-sighted: buildings have as much, if not more, to tell us about the living as their graves do. The archaeological evidence for Dublin’s 9th century settlement clusters around two separate settlement foci with very different characters. Based on the locations and numbers of furnished burials (Harrison and Ó Floinn, 2014; Simpson, 2011, 62) and the potential sizes of fleets operating out of the 9th century longphort (Holm, 2015), we could perhaps expect to see a larger spread of 9th century archaeological deposits. As yet however, the Black Pool and Temple Bar West provide the only archaeological evidence for 9th century housing and it is to these structures which we now turn (Map 2.2). The Black Pool

The earliest, and some of the most exciting evidence, for 9th century Dublin came from excavations carried out right on the edge of the Black Pool at 40–48 South Great Georges Street (Simpson, 2005, 2008). These excavations revealed four centuries of activity, beginning sometime before the mid-9th century. This sequence begins in Level 1.1, dating to the 8th to mid-9th century, when flood boundaries were constructed here at the edges of the Black Pool (Figure 2.3). This created a deeper body of water here, ideal for pulling up shallow Viking longships (Simpson, 2008, 23). These boundaries may be contemporary with or slightly later than Temple Bar West’s Structure N. Slightly later, in Level 1.2, a large timber structure - Structure A - was erected here (Simpson, 2005, 50; 2008, 37–40). This was poorly preserved and represented only by an alignment of post holes, possibly roof supports, and a domestic refuse pit which contained butchered animal bone, ecofacts, shell and charcoal flecks. This pit indicates that there was a hearth nearby which was used for preparing food. This structure was erected very shortly after the first boundary fence and drainage ditch were constructed, perhaps even as one of the very first acts undertaken by the residents here. In Level 2 (mid- to late- 9th century), a series of four furnished Viking graves were excavated. These skeletons, identified as biologically male, were buried in shallow pits and provided with weapons and jewellery for their journey to the afterlife. The graves are arranged around the edge of the site and may have been marked with stone cairns as memorials (Simpson, 2005, 24). Isotopic and DNA analyses indicate that these men did not grow up in Dublin and the radiocarbon profiles make it likely that they predate the traditional 840–841 settlement date for Dublin (ibid, 50). It is possible that Structure A may still have been standing at this point, as a timber hall could have had a

32  The Houses

Map 2.2 Dublin in the 9th century. Map data © 2020 Google.

Ireland’s 9th-Century Viking-Age Settlements  33 lifespan of a number of decades in these dryer conditions here away from the Liffey. The Level 1 enclosure banks were also still standing. The combination of this large timber hall, the cairns marking the graves, and the defensive location on the edge of the Black Pool paints an evocative picture as depicted in the cover image to this volume. In Level 3 (late 9th to late 11th century), Structure B replaced the earlier Structure A. This was another large structure, represented by postholes indicating free-standing roof supports and an aisled layout. It contained metalled interior surfaces, occupation layers, and a hearth. Structure B had an excavated length of 10.5 m, but Simpson estimates that its original length was perhaps as much as 15 m (Simpson, 2010a, 79; 2011, 23). The middle aisle was between 3 and 3.5 m wide, which is exceedingly large in terms of later Dublin houses. Allowing for minimum aisle widths of 1 m at either side and 3 m in the middle, Structure B’s area was at least 60 m2. With more generous aisle widths of 1.5 and 3.5 m and the extended length of 15 m, its area would have been 97.5 m2. Structure B represents an exceptionally large rectangular building in an Irish context. The only building coming close to this known from contemporary early medieval Ireland is the roundhouse at Moynagh Lough, which measured 11.2 m in diameter (Bradley, 1991, 16). A traditional longhouse has a width-to-length ratio of 1:2 (Milek, 2006, 90), and this certainly fits the bill for Structures A and B. However, these are not isolated longhouses in the midst of the Scandinavian or Irish countryside – they are at the heart of Dublin, one of the most important centres in the Viking world. Its best parallel is Birka’s Warrior’s Hall (Hedenstierna-Jonson, 2006, 51–52). This longhouse is at the centre of Birka’s military garrison, and its mid- to late 10th-century phase contained high-status artefacts indicating a ‘high seat’, a concentration of weaponry, and padlocks indicating storage chests. More relevantly, the Warrior’s Hall had at least two earlier incarnations, with its earliest hall dating from the second half of the 8th-century and a 9th-century renovation phase. Significantly, this earlier hall had far fewer artefacts, mainly potsherds and animal bones, than its 10th-century replacement. This parallels the limited artefact range in Structures A and B at the Black Pool. Here, there are some dress accessories and other objects present in addition to the grave goods. These are gender-neutral and inexpensive objects – bone pins or needles, beads, and copper alloy and silver pins – which many members of Viking society could have possessed. Given the nature of longphort activity, it is difficult to see these objects in any light other than raiders provisioned only with their weapons and immediate personal items. They travelled lightly and returned home for the winter. The next building constructed was Structure C, a possible Type 1 house. Stratigraphically, it belongs to Level 3, Phase 2 and overlies Structure B. It was represented by a series of postholes, a cobbled surface, and a hearth. It lies just 1 m west of Structure B, but it was built on a different orientation, aligning northwest–southeast rather than northeast–southwest. Simpson (2008, 65) suggests that B and C may have been contemporary but there are no direct stratigraphical links between the two structures. It is likely to date

34  The Houses to the late 9th century but could be as late as the 11th century (Simpson, 2008, 62–65). The Viking activity at the Black Pool is interpreted primarily around the presence and dating of the furnished burials (e.g. Simpson, 2014). These burials provide the military element to the interpretation of this as part of the longphort. Harrison and Ó Floinn suggest that the appearance of Structure B after these burial events reflects an abandonment or loss of memory in relation to these earlier burials (Harrison and Ó Floinn, 2014, 238, 577). I suggest that the presence of the underlying Structure A indicates the exact opposite. Structure B represents continuity of the original settlement and a close memory of and association with the burials. The longhouse is a signifier of Viking identity (as discussed in Boyd, 2015b, 341–344), and to find evidence for such a structure here on the banks of the Black Pool is significant. That this construction was one of the first acts of occupation by the residents here is highly symbolic. This is even more pronounced when you consider that the lifespan of the structural sequence potentially begins earlier than 840–841 (as Structure A predates the burials) and continues into at least the late 9th century if not into the 10th century. There is one final thread in this story: a small assemblage of iron rivets, ship nails, and a drop-bearded axehead were found in the river gravels of the Black Pool. These objects were interpreted as evidence of the Viking longships which were docked here on the edge of the Black Pool (Simpson, 2008, 30, 53). However, an altogether different explanation is that the axe represents a carefully considered ritual deposit placed into the Black Pool. Raffield suggests that a resurgence in the numbers of watery depositions of weapons in Viking-Age England is evidence of characteristically Scandinavian and pagan offerings to the gods (Raffield, 2014, 648). Lund suggests that ritual depositions of weapons in harbours and river mouths commemorated journeys and marked the borders between the known and unknown (Lund, 2014, 174). Furthermore, she notes that an axe was used to deliberately mark territorial divisions in Berg in Norway (Lund, 2005, 120). Against this background, the find of a drop-bearded axehead, a typically Viking object, at the Black Pool is intriguing to say the least. Harrison and Ó Floinn argue that furnished burials are consistently placed as statements of intent and territorial ownership, citing the Woodstown Warrior as the prime example (2014, 293, 316). At the Black Pool, there are multiple warrior burials, an impressively large Scandinavian-style longhouse, and a defensive palisade fence which was set into the newly established enclosure ditch here. If we add to this the ritual deposit of an axe in the waters of the Black Pool, the impression is that, here on the shores of the Liffey and the Poddle, we have an extreme statement of Scandinavian-inspired ritual and political intent centred on belief, ownership, and possession of this land in the 9th century. Temple Bar West

Some 350 m north of the Black Pool, where the Poddle entered the Liffey, two other sites revealed 9th-century activity. These are located less than

Ireland’s 9th-Century Viking-Age Settlements  35 100 m away from each other, but there was no physical link between the excavations at 33–34 Parliament Street (Gowen and Scally, 1996) and Temple Bar West (Simpson, 1999, 2002). We have already encountered Structure N at Temple Bar West (the 8th-century house with possible Anglo-Saxon parallels) which had been abandoned and demolished by the middle of the 9th century. Activity begins again here with a single ploughing event which crossed the entire site. This event is not dated; it may have occurred immediately after Structure N went out of use or immediately before the next construction sequence began, as a site foundation event. It is attributed to a concerted attempt to clear the site (Simpson, 1999, 11–12) prior to a new occupation event. Level 4 dates to the mid-9th century (Figure 2.3a). At this time, a series of deposits of organic material were made to infill the river inlet in Site B, effectively reclaiming this land by the start of Level 5 (Simpson, 2002, 184). Concurrently, a series of three small sunken-floored structures were constructed in Site A (Simpson, 2002, 81). These measure just under 7 m2 in area and were cut directly through the boulder clay and underlying limestone bedrock to a depth of 0.6 m (see Figure 2.3a). They are well built and were entered via a short, stepped passageway. A post-and-wattle superstructure would have formed the aboveground walls and supported the roof. The three structures shared a cobbled external yard and a communal cooking hearth (Simpson, 1999, 13–16). Similar structures were found to the south on Site C, although these were much less well preserved. Simpson suggests that these would have been reasonably snug, if small, homes. These were used for, at most, a couple of decades around the middle of the 9th century before being deliberately backfilled in the third quarter of the 9th century. Similar pits cut into the boulder clay were recorded at Winetavern Street, High Street, and Fishamble Street (Kelly, 2015, 89; Simpson, 2012, 96). Based on the assumption at that time that there was no settlement in Dublin before 917 AD, these were presumed to date to the early 10th century (Clarke, 1998, 333). However, it may be that these represent additional mid-9th-century activity at alternative locations along the banks of the Liffey (Simpson, 2012, 101). Similar sunken-floored structures are found in other early urban contexts like Hedeby and Ralswiek in Germany and at Arhus, Denmark (Croix, 2015, 2) as well as being common features on rural settlements (Herschend, 2020). Herschend notes that pit houses such as these were relatively ‘inexpensive’ in terms of building materials and labour and were easy and quick to construct (Herschend, 2020, ‘Buildings and Settlements’ section). Croix suggests that these are ‘primitive’ temporary structures constructed during the initial occupation on what would become urban sites (Croix, 2015, 2). At the end of their short lifetime, the aboveground portions of these sunken-floored structures were demolished and the pits were filled in. A series of three large regular properties, oriented north–south, were established above them in Level 5 (dating to late 9th to early 10th century, Simpson, 2002, 160, see Figure 2.3b). These properties were clearly demarcated using post-and-wattle

 63H sesuoT eh

Figure 2.2 9th- and early 10th-century activity at the Black Pool, Dublin. Redrawn from Simpson, 2008, Figures 14, 16, 24, 25, 26.

Ireland’s 9th-Century Viking-Age Settlements  37

Figure 2.3 9th-century activity at Temple Bar West, Dublin. Redrawn from Simpson (1999), Figures 7, 8, 10, 11.

38  The Houses fences, but no houses were built here for some years. Instead, two large enclosures or pens were constructed. Several small, irregularly spaced properties were established on this new ground, roughly aligned northeast–southwest. These contain Structures O and P, the first Type 1 post-and-wattle houses, and Structure R, a Type 2 house. To the east, a third property, containing Structure I, was oriented north–south, again featuring a Type 1 house. This domestic activity was accompanied by industrial activity, with a series of hearths, ash spreads, and working surfaces across the southern part of Sites B, C, and D (Simpson, 2002, 87–88). Level 6 at Temple Bar West also dates to the late 9th century, possibly extending into the early 10th century (Simpson, 2002, 213). The occupation continues here with rebuilding of Structures O and P, and the replacement of Structure R with (circular) Structure Q and Structure I with Structure H (Figure 2.3c). In Site A, there is significant expansion of construction with the construction of several smaller wattle pens, two probable domestic houses, and the subdivision of the largest property into two smaller properties. In Site C, the industrial activity continues (Simpson, 2002, 178). Around the same time, there is evidence for the construction of rectangular post-and-wattle Type 1 houses at 33–34 Parliament Street, just to the east of Temple Bar West (Gowen and Scally, 1996). The earliest house, Structure A, seems to have predated any property layout on the site and was oriented north–south (ibid, 11), in contrast to later northeast/southwest buildings. Despite the patchy preservation at these sites, it is clear that the post-and-wattle architecture uncovered from late 9th-century contexts is immediately recognisable as what Wallace termed the Hiberno-Norse Type 1 house. There is no transitional architectural phase; the construction appears fully developed and in a form which is recognisable right from the 9th to the 12th centuries. Just as at the Black Pool, a series of low banks were excavated at Temple Bar West and Parliament Street. These were initially deemed non-defensive given their low size (Simpson, 2011, 29), and Temple Bar West was considered an undefended settlement (Simpson, 1999, 27) with the banks probably operating as flood banks and boundary markers (Simpson, 2010b, 85). Small sections of these 9th-century banks were also recovered at Christchurch Place (Walsh, 2001, 94–96), Werburgh Street (Hayden, 2002, 66) and, relevant here, 33–34 Parliament Street (Scally, 2002, 16). However, the nature of the banks excavated at Woodstown forced a re-evaluation of these smaller banks, and Simpson concludes that these banks may have functioned in a defensive capacity (Simpson, 2011, 33). Given the geographical spread of these banks, the total area enclosed at Dublin may have been as much as 400 m long and 200 m wide, putting the Dublin longphort on par with the very large enclosures at Woodstown and Torksey (Simpson, 2011, 28). Annagassan’s even larger enclosure hints that some longphuirt may have functioned on an even greater scale, a suggestion that has serious implications for the distribution of furnished burial evidence across swathes of Dublin (­Simpson, 2012, 110).

Ireland’s 9th-Century Viking-Age Settlements  39 River-Towns

Clearly, there is something different about this part of Ireland which resulted in the establishment of long-term settlement, unlike at the other longphuirt sites. These sites at the edges of the Liffey and the Poddle were hardly prime land. Indeed, they are both marginal, riverside areas which experienced bouts of flooding and inundation on a regular enough frequency to require the construction of flood banks. The confluence of the Poddle and the Liffey is a ‘break point’ (Baker and Brookes, 2013, 172), an intersection between different types of water routes (coastal, riverine, or oceanic). Proximity and access to the water as well as these various communication routes could be exactly the reason behind the development of settlement at the intersections of these rivers. Perhaps, it is exactly this location, at the intersection between the two watercourses, which enabled the development of this new form of settlement here. Certainly, access to the river is the motivating factor in the development of a series of towns along the Loire Valley from the 6th century onwards (Burnouf, 2009, 176). Burnouf calls these ‘river-towns’: urban centres developed through interactions with and (crucially) control of riverine resources. For Burnouf, these resources include the river as a means of transport, an enabler of travel and trade, but also the river’s inherent potential as a source of hydraulic energy and of botanical and animal resources. These towns are created through human–environment interventions, including the construction of levees and bridges, apportioning of fishing and navigation rights, and harnessing of river energy. These interactions dramatically and irreversibly created new patterns in the spaces of and around the river and increased significantly from 500 to 1000 (ibid, 173–175). In 9th-century Dublin, there are similar human–environment interactions with the construction of flood banks and concurrent land reclamation processes. Using this concept of controlling and utilising river-based resources, the distinctions between the location and functions of the Black Pool and Temple Bar West may make more sense. The confluence of the Liffey and the Poddle provided two very different opportunities for accessing the potential of the rivers here. The safe harbour encountered at the Black Pool provided a resting place for the raiders and their ships. The function of the activity at the Black Pool was to make a statement of dominance and a display of might through the construction of defensive palisades and banks, the longhouse, and the furnished burials. For the ‘Vikings’ of the longphort, the river itself was a means of travel (Hilllerdal, 2010, 506), potentially a food resource, but there was no intention there to engage more deeply with the river and its environment. In contrast, it is at Temple Bar West that people began to influence the actions of the river through flood defences and land reclamation to create permanent, intentional settlement. This settlement may have been focused around the potential of the river to enhance productive work – namely the metalworking indicated in Levels 4–6 (Simpson, 2010b, 86–87). Griffiths suggests that the Temple Bar West occupation is “extra-mural occupation of lesser importance”

40  The Houses (Griffiths, 2010, 36), but I would suggest that this area is more important from our perspective as an early indicator of urban life. The river-town model may also provide us with an explanation as to why other longphuirt did not become permanent settlements. Most longphuirt were located on single rivers, a good distance upstream (e.g. Woodstown and Knoxspark), rather than at the confluence of rivers. This location may not have provided the impetus required to control and utilise the water resources necessary to stimulate the development of long-term settlement. It is notable that the earliest evidence of settlement at Waterford is between the Suir and the John’s River (see Chapter 3 and Hurley et al., 1997). The key to York’s 9th-century development may also lie in the relationships between its activity and its rivers (Hall et al., 2015, 707). Searching for Parallels, Part 1 One of Dublin’s problems has long been its isolation as an Irish site; it has no clear parallels on this island. Clonmacnoise has long been proposed as a monastic town, based primarily on documentary evidence (Bradley, 1998; Doherty, 1985). However, the archaeological evidence is simply too piecemeal (and it remains unpublished, although Soderberg, 2022, 65–79 provides an overview) to present a convincing picture (O’Sullivan et al., 2021, 177). Throughout this book, my focus is on the archaeological remains of houses and buildings. The fact remains that there are no buildings at Clonmacnoise, or any other putative monastic town in Ireland, which can be directly compared with the 9th- to 12th-century archaeological remains from the urban centres. Wallace (1992b, 74–80; 2016, 462) and Clarke (1998, 368; 2020, viii) both maintain that Irish urban settlement should find its closest parallels across the Irish Sea. Griffiths points to Hereford, Chester, and Bristol as potential 10thto 12th-century parallels for Dublin (2010, 129–135). However, there is little there to project backwards to correlate with Dublin’s mid-9th-century evidence. Even York does not have clear 9th-century occupation sequences. While Coppergate did reveal episodic activity in the late 8th to mid-9th centuries, this archaeology is too ephemeral and transient to constitute settlement (Hall et al., 2015, 560–562, 707). This means that while York is a valid parallel for 10th-­ century Dublin, it cannot (yet) be seen as having serious influence at the outset of Dublin’s existence. Instead, we must travel further afield for those 9th-century parallels to Scandinavia and its three major pre-10th-century urban settlements of Birka, Kaupang, and Ribe (Kalmring, 2020). Hillerdal notes that the emergence of these Scandinavian urban centres in the 8th and 9th century coincides with the break between prehistory and history in Scandinavian chronology (Hilllerdal, 2010, 505). There is also a physical and chronological discontinuity between the 8th- and 9th-century town sites and the slightly later 10th-century urban foundations (ibid, 501–502; Skre, 2011, 448–449). However, their chronologies overlap with Dublin, and they all revealed evidence for building activity which can be directly paralleled with the 9th-century Dublin buildings.

Ireland’s 9th-Century Viking-Age Settlements  41 Birka

At Birka in Sweden, the earliest sequence of houses, known as the Bronze Casters Workshop, is stratigraphically dated to after 790 and ending before 860–865, contemporary with Kaupang (Ambrosiani, 2013, 251). These houses are similar in size to both Kaupang and Dublin but of quite a different construction method. They are constructed using earth-fast load-bearing walls to support the weight of the roof, which means that there are no internal roof-supporting posts and consequently no three-aisled layout. Rather, these houses have a transverse spatial division creating two separate internal rooms (ibid, 217–218). This division of space is not commonly found outside Birka, and Croix suggests that houses with equal transverse divisions may have been occupied by two families (Croix, 2014, 118). Ambrosiani notes that this house style is also found in Birka’s hinterland, leading him to question whether this house was truly an urban style of house or whether it had a rural origin. In addition to the Bronze-Casters Workshop, the other major building from 9th-century Birka is the Warriors Hall (see above). These sequences are from two different locations in Birka, but this combination of military focus side by side with domestic settlement is reminiscent of the dual focus of settlement at the Black Pool and Temple Bar West. Much of the 9th-century artefacts at Birka indicate that the town looked to the southwest and had significant links to Denmark and the Rhineland (Ambrosiani, 2008, 98–99). However, this changes by the end of the 9th century with a noticeable increase in artefacts of eastern, Byzantine origin, particularly silk and silver (ibid). In terms of function, Birka becomes a place to receive and redistribute Arabic silver across Scandinavia and the wider Viking world. This is similar to Dublin’s role in Ireland – as a place to receive objects from Scandinavia (including silk and silver which ultimately came from the east) and redistribute them across its Irish network. Indeed, this may also be reflected in Sheehan’s identification of a Baltic silver horizon in Irish silver hoards from the 910s and 920s perhaps hinting at deeper links between Dublin and Birka (Sheehan, 2021, 429). Kaupang

Of these Scandinavian places, Kaupang is the site most often paralleled with Dublin, usually on the basis of similar architectural forms (e.g. Skre, 2015, 239; Valante, 2008; Wallace, 2016). Here, eight poorly preserved houses were excavated by the harbour (Skre, 2007a). These houses share several characteristics with the post-and-wattle Type 1 house: similar dimensions, internal roof-supporting posts, end wall doors, three-aisled divisions, and central hearths (­Figure 2.4a and Skre, 2007a, 214–217). While the houses are similar, they are not identical as they utilise different wall construction techniques (Boyd, 2009, 275; 2015b, 334). At Kaupang, it appears that sill beam–based walls were common while Dublin utilises exclusively post-and-wattle architecture until the late 12th century.

42  The Houses

Figure 2.4 9th- and 10th-century housing from Kaupang, Ribe, and York: a) Composite of excavated houses at Kaupang, Norway. After Skre (2007a), Figure 10.11. b) The structural evidence from Sct Nicolajgade 8, phase 1a, Ribe, Denmark. Redrawn from Croix (2015), Figure 8. c) Detail of Tenement C and D, Period 4B, Coppergate, York, England. Redrawn from Hall et al. (2015), Figure 166. d) Period 5B structures at Coppergate, York, England. Redrawn from Hall et al. (2015), Figure 196.

The earliest Kaupang houses date to c. 805/810 (Skre, 2007a, 184), and this building sequence ends around 850, which, Skre notes, “pre-date[s] those in Dublin by at least a century” (ibid, 217). However, this does not take account of the 9th-century evidence from Temple Bar West (Simpson, 1999), which showed that this type of house was prevalent in Dublin before the end of the

Ireland’s 9th-Century Viking-Age Settlements  43 9th century. Nor does it take account of the early activity at the Black Pool (Simpson, 2005). It is more accurate to say that a period of about fifty years separates early to mid-9th-century Kaupang from mid- to late 9th-century Dublin. It certainly supports Valente’s assertion that there could have been significant influence from Kaupang in the early stages of Dublin’s foundation (Valante, 2008, 60–64). This means that someone born in Kaupang in the 810s could easily have travelled as part of a raiding party to Dublin in the 820s, 830s or 840s. That person could have settled in Dublin in the mid-9th century in a house built using local construction techniques and their own knowledge of what sort of building was suitable for the lifestyle of Kaupang. As an emporia site, Kaupang had multiple functions which involved both the creation and modification of new and existing objects (e.g. Baug, 2011, 333; Wamers, 2011, 93–97) and their redistribution through Kaupang’s network links (see in particular Chapter 16, Skre, 2011). Skre views Kaupang as the main port connecting Norway to Ireland from the 9th into the 10th century (Skre, 2011, 448). In this context, Kaupang operates as a redistribution centre for objects coming from the Irish Sea region (Skre, 2015, 239). This view supports that of Valante, who also identified Kaupang as Dublin’s exchange partner in the 9th-century longphort phase, indicating that its role was to receive objects from Dublin and place them into circulation in local and regional networks (Valante, 2008, 60–64). A consideration of the extent to which such productive activities occurred at Temple Bar West would be a valuable point of direct comparison here. However, another theme which penetrates the Kaupang assemblages is that of permanent versus seasonal occupation (e.g. Barrett et al., 2007, 301; Pilø, 2007, 192–195; Skre, 2008, 337). Skre concluded that the presence of substantial housing, varied artefacts, and other large-scale constructions, such as wharves, indicated permanent occupation (Skre, 2007b, 453). This was picked up at Ribe by Croix in her re-evaluation of the Sct Nicolajgade 8 excavations (Croix, 2015). Ribe

Ribe, Denmark’s first town, was initially interpreted as a seasonal campsite where productive activities were carried out during the summer. This seasonal phase began early in the 8th century, and it was not until the 780s/790s that year-round occupation began (Feveile, 2008, 127–128). However, Croix suggests that there was, in fact, year-round occupation at Ribe from the beginning of the 8th century based on the presence of four markers which built on Skre’s concepts of permanence as first expressed at Kaupang: • • • •

Site foundation works to indicate long-term planning. The presence of houses and indoor floor deposits. Artefacts indicating household activity. Ecofacts indicating over-wintering.

Croix suggests that the initial site foundations and layout of property plots indicates intention at the outset of activity at Ribe. Not all properties were

44  The Houses initially occupied, but they were set out for future use (Croix, 2015, 7). Some of these properties contained distinctive internal house floors and wall trenches (Figure 2.4b), indicating that they had featured rectangular buildings contained within the property boundaries (ibid, 10–12). The artefacts indicate textile work and cereal production (ibid, 8–9) – activities which can be termed maintenance activities (see Chapter 4) – as well as craft activity in dedicated workshops and the presence of multiple and inter-linked craftworking in the 8th-century levels (Croix et al., 2019, 358–359). The sum of all these parts is, for Croix, an intention of permanence in the deliberate creation of Ribe’s urban landscape (ibid, 20). Function, Intention, and Permanence? If we return to the idea of function introduced in Chapter 1, we may be able to use this to shed further light on the nature of the longphort and the character of 9th-century Dublin. Clarke defines the function of a town as the redistribution of non-food objects which are imported or made locally (Clarke, 2013, 277). This requires energy, a skilled and willing population, and extensive local and wider-scale resource networks. This is not dissimilar to the functions which emporia fulfilled. These could be defined as transforming raw materials into finished objects and redistributing them over their wider (usually maritime) network (Sindbæk, 2016). They are places where people and objects gather, collect, and are transformed. Indeed, Sindbaek names emporia as “transformational” places (Sindbæk, 2022a, 11), places which facilitated ‘new departures’ in human endeavour. By comparison, the functions of a longphort are less positive. Their role could be understood to remove objects permanently from their locality. The initial removal is of objects (treasure, food, raw materials, and people) from the locality via raiding, and the second degree is to remove them from the longphort via their redistributive networks, generally back to Scandinavia. Williams is correct to assert that longphuirt share some urban characteristics (Williams, 2015, 102) but their function is quite different from that of a town (or emporia). If we turn to 9th-century Dublin, we see that the Black Pool and Temple Bar West each display military and residential functions. This is combined with both the removal functions of the longphort and the redistribution function of a town. While objects retrieved during raiding were removed to the longphort for redistribution around its long-distance networks, the settlement also functioned to redistribute objects around its local network. In 1998, Clarke argued that Dublin, prior to the 10th century, had no indicators of permanence. There was no evidence to support the idea of “an organised, planned town” (Clarke, 1998, 333). More recently, Clarke, Johnson, and Dooley summarised 9th-­ century Dublin as having “a distinct air of impermanence” (Clarke et al., 2018, 58, 98). They envision Dublin in the 9th century as an emporium, operating along the lines of Kaupang, with long-distance trade as the prime factor in its development.

Ireland’s 9th-Century Viking-Age Settlements  45 Valante envisages a similar purpose for Dublin, seeing it developing as a ‘gateway market centre’, funnelling goods, especially silver, from Irish soil back to Norwegian markets, presumably Kaupang (Valante, 2008, 52–53). Horne’s identification of 9th-century Dublin as a nodal market develops this economics-driven argument further via his analysis of Viking-Age silver (Horne, 2022). These arguments all prioritise a particular type of function and evidence: economic activity as reflected in trading and productive activity (Croix, 2015, 20). However, it is quite clear that trading and productive activities are not the only activities to occur in Kaupang or Ribe or most of the other sites identified as emporia or nodal markets. Therefore, if we are comparing 9th-century Dublin to contemporary emporia sites, we need to consider whether Dublin reflects the full range of evidence coming from these sites. Horne points out that there has been little questioning of the actual dynamics and interplay between local, regional, and wider networks of traders, markets, and settlement in the Irish Sea region (Horne, 2022, ‘Conclusion’ section). In the remainder of this chapter, I want to consider how we might apply the concept of permanence and its four criteria, as developed at Kaupang and Ribe, to 9th-century Dublin. Beginning with the evidence for intentional site foundation works, there are several interlinked processes visible in 9th-century Dublin. The first is the land reclamation works on the riverbanks at Parliament Street and Temple Bar West. At Parliament Street, this process began in Level 1 when introduced clay layers were introduced to create a stable building surface to the west of the Poddle (Scally, 1996, 10–11). At Temple Bar West, the reclamation process involved the wholesale dumping of organic material into the Site B river inlet during Level 4 (Figure 2.3, see also Simpson, 2002, vol. 2, 130). These reclaimed lands were immediately defined by erecting post-and-wattle fences to create bounded properties and the subsequent construction of post-and-wattle Type 1 houses. At the Black Pool, the interactions with the natural river levels begin in Phase 1 with the construction of a drainage ditch running from the north of the site and emptying into the Black Pool (Simpson, 2008, 24). This ditch was replaced by two slot trenches, with palisade fences, and a low defensive ditch in Phase 2, while in Phase 3, a series of smaller ditches crisscrossed the northern half of the site. While the land here at the Black Pool was not claimed via individual property boundaries, the accompanying features – the burials, the longhouse, and the ditches – make that statement of ownership and intent here. The second element of site foundation works is the construction of enclosing banks whose distribution indicates the size of the enclosed area. As we have seen, sections of 9th-century banks were found at Temple Bar West, Parliament Street, and the Black Pool. There are two further sections of excavated banks which are likely to have 9th-century origins (Map 2.2). At Werburgh Street, the earliest Level 1 activity was a large bank which was provided with a slot trench, suggesting that this part of the settlement required defence (Hayden, 2002, 46–47; Simpson, 2010b, 33). Walsh suggested that a 4-m-wide bank at the National Museum of Ireland excavations at Christchurch Place should also be dated to the 9th century. This larger bank was not palisaded

46  The Houses (Walsh, 2001, 94–95) and so may have more in common with the Temple Bar banks. Third, there is archaeological evidence of a series of road surfaces dating to the 8th and 9th centuries. The first of these is a 20-m-long metalled surface at Chancery Lane which measured 2.34 m wide (Figure 2.5a and Walsh, 2009 14). Simpson (2011, 19) suggests that this may represent the early Slighe Dála. A second roadway here also measured 2 m wide and up to 60 m in length (ibid, 16). On re-examination of the Christchurch Place archive, Walsh also suggested that a cobbled surface to the north of the large bank, inside the enclosed town, may have been a formal roadway (Walsh, 2001, 95). In addition, a substantial cobbled road traversed Temple Bar West’s Site B, overlying the reclaimed river inlet and some of the earliest houses. This road linked the river and the housing areas, suggesting to Simpson that there was “a sophisticated level of communal organization” (Simpson, 2011, 32) or perhaps even evidence of a “central authority” (Simpson, 2012, 109). The Chancery Lane roadways may date anywhere from the late 8th to 10th century, but together, these roadways represent a further series of infrastructural elements in 9th-­ century Dublin. The final element here is the early establishment of individual property boundaries. These are a key feature of Temple Bar West and are immediately used to delimit and claim portions of ground around individual houses. Importantly, there are properties established on Site A but not built on for several years (see above for discussion of Level 5). This is vitally important at Ribe, where it indicates long-term planning and intention through establishing properties for future use (Croix, 2015, 7). Although Temple Bar West’s first sequence of properties is irregular in form, by the end of the 9th century, these are as standardised as they will be in the 11th and 12th centuries. The contrast between Temple Bar and the Black Pool is also noteworthy; there are no properties evident within the enclosed area of the Black Pool. This is unlikely to be an accident of survival, as there are many postholes dating to the 9th-century levels; it seems that boundary fences were simply not used there. This may be related to the nature of settlement here. If this is the site of the military element of longphort, it is possible that the warriors used tents or other temporary structures which would not leave archaeological traces. Individually, each of these elements of 9th-century Dublin is well known – the banks, the roadways, and the property boundaries – but the sum of the parts is more significant than the individual elements (Croix, 2020b, 122–125). The embankments and the river reclamation processes go hand in hand here, indicating an awareness of local river flooding patterns and an intention to live within these patterns. The provision of roadways enables regular and regulated access to the river and its resources, while the construction and maintenance of houses and boundaries (both local boundaries, enclosing houses and households, and the larger boundaries, enclosing the settlement) also imply some degree of regularity. There is a large-scale programme of infrastructural works here across the entirety of the 9th-century settlement area.

a) 8th-century road surface from the Coombe, Dublin. Image Walsh (2012), Figure 3.5 © Claire Walsh. b) 11th-century road surface, Peter Street, Waterford. Image Hurley et al. (1997), Figure 6.46 © Waterford City & County Council.

Ireland’s 9th-Century Viking-Age Settlements  47

Figure 2.5 Excavated road surfaces from Dublin and Waterford.

48  The Houses Croix’s second point in favour of permanent populations at Ribe is the nature of the artefact assemblage, which included typically female-attributed artefacts such as weaving equipment and food production tools (Croix, 2015, 8–10). After all, women are essential to population growth. The artefact assemblage from the earliest levels at Temple Bar West and Parliament Street contained textile working tools, jewellery, and utensils for food production; there were women present there. Whilst looking for ‘female artefacts’ to confirm female presence runs the danger of becoming a reductionist “add women and stir” approach (Tringham, 1991, 95), the presence of these artefacts confirms that both women and men were present here. At Temple Bar West, the presence of children is not elaborated on, but there is at least one formal child burial in Level 3, contemporary with the sunken-floored structures (Simpson, 1999, 16–17). There is also evidence of productive activities, including metalworking, and of connections to local trading networks, based on the presence of haemetite from the Wicklow mountains (as discussed above). By comparison, the Black Pool artefact assemblages are significantly more limited. Eleven grave goods accompanied the burials, comprising weapons and personal items such as knives, pins, and combs. Five bone needles were associated with the Viking levels, one of which was very heavily worn (Ryan, 2008, 509–510), and a single spindle whorl came from Level 1 (ibid, 518). There are no distinctively female artefacts here from the other levels – no spindle whorls, oval brooches, or loom weights. Given that there was survival of bone objects and skeletal material, preservation bias plays less of a role here than at Woodstown, and it is difficult not to see this as evidence of a very male presence at the Black Pool. It is possible that these typically female objects were used at almost a subsistence level, for repairing fabrics, clothing, or sails, rather than creating fabrics. There must have been at least one woman present within this settlement as one human bone sample was identified as belonging to a preterm infant (Buckley, 2008, 384), but there may not have been large numbers of women undertaking typically female ‘Viking’ activities. For both Croix and Skre, environmental evidence should provide corroborating evidence of year-round habitation rather than seasonal occupation. At Kaupang, the presence of the bones of migratory barnacle and brent geese which overwinter in northwest Europe indicates that the site was occupied year-round (Barrett et al., 2007, 301–303). Unfortunately, Croix does not discuss ecofactual evidence from Sct Nicolajgade, perhaps because of limited preservation of such ecofacts. In contrast, in Dublin we know that the environmental preservation can be excellent; however, analysis of that environmental evidence is limited to the presence/absence of plant or animals at the species level (Boyd and Stone, 2021; Davis, 2021, In prep). Considerations of seasonality are not available. As a temperate climate, Ireland has few plants or animals which would both indicate seasonality and survive archaeologically. Fresh fruit seeds and nuts indicate summer and autumn, but winter food stores are laid down over these better months, and there are no obvious dietary indicators for foods, plants, or animals present in winter.

Ireland’s 9th-Century Viking-Age Settlements  49 The last of Croix’s criteria is the presence of houses with indoor floor deposits. This is undeniable in 9th century Dublin and we see not just consistent house construction but a mixture of three different building styles. This begins with the mid-9th-century early sunken-floored structures, most clearly seen in Temple Bar West, and the longhouse style Structures A and B on the edges of the Black Pool. While the longhouse was likely maintained for several generations, the sunken structures did not last long. They were rapidly replaced by the postand-wattle Type 1 house with its defined property boundaries. As discussed earlier, this building does not appear in an initial transitional or development form. Rather, it appears as a fully developed building style by the late 9th century and remains unchanged for some 300 years. Clarke asserts that, on its own, the appearance of property divisions is not enough to indicate urban ways of life. They must be accompanied by additional “appropriate socio-­ economic indicators” (Clarke, 2016, 225). In 9th-century Dublin, there is, as we have seen, a range of such indicators (Table 2.1). Using Croix’s terminology, these indicators include extensive evidence of site foundation such as the construction of both flood and military defences, quarrying of bedrock for construction purposes, and dispersed drainage and river reclamation programmes. There are orderly properties, including properties which were laid out but not occupied (just as in Ribe), during the second half of the 9th century. We can add to this the archaeological roadways at Temple Bar West and Chancery Lane and the historic network of highways which converged at Dublin. The quantities of disarticulated and fragmented human remains at the Black Pool are, Simpson suggests, indicative of a “significant Viking population” in 9th-century Dublin, including men, women, and children (Simpson, 2011, 28). The sum of all these works indicates a large-scale

Table 2.1  Comparison of permanency criteria in 9th-century sites Site

Temple Bar West South Great Georges Street Parliament Street Woodstown Ribe Birka Kaupang

Houses & internal floors

Site foundations & property plots

Artefacts indicating domestic economy

✓

✓

✓

✓

✓

✓

✓

✓

✓

? ✓ ✓ ✓

✓ ✓ ✓ ✓

✓ ✓ ✓

Ecofacts indicating year-round occupation

✓ ✓

50  The Houses infrastructural programme and, underlying it, intentions of permanency at both Temple Bar West and the Black Pool. Conclusion Our best guess is that this intentional process of settlement in Dublin began well before the third quarter of the 9th century. This process was maintained over years, decades, and ultimately centuries. It speaks to an awareness of seasonal river flooding patterns (through the requirements for the flood banks), interactions, whether peaceful or otherwise, with existing settlement complexes and to arrangements between different parties to undertake these programmes (the various sections of reclamation works and bank construction). At Temple Bar West, there is a density of occupation with women, men, and children present and engaging in productive work. This is not visible at the Black Pool, which leads to the suggestion that there were, indeed, different zones within the longphort with a military focus at the Black Pool. We have to consider that Dublin in the 9th century, while not extensive, was indeed permanent in intention. This permanency underlies the expansion of emporia sites and nodal points across northern Europe in this period. If Dublin is indeed a permanent settlement in the 9th century, we should consider it to be an urban place.

3

Ireland’s 10th- to 12th-Century Viking-Age Towns

Introduction By the end of the 9th century, we see that Dublin has developed a series of characteristics which can and should be considered evidence of permanent and intentional urban settlement. The history of the 10th to 12th centuries is complex, with the balance of power swinging from Viking hands to Irish hand and back again, before the arrival of the Anglo-Normans at the close of the 12th century. Archaeologically, we see expanded settlement areas, new towns, growing populations, and growing markets to supply and demand new objects, new influences, and new ideas culminating in the Hiberno-Scandinavian material culture. Yet, throughout these centuries, the architecture of the town remains the same. A post-and-wattle Type 1 house of the 12th century looked the same as a 9th-century one. This is a remarkable stability. 10th-Century Dublin In the 10th century, occupation and activity continue at Temple Bar West, Parliament Street, and the Black Pool. The most important site here is Temple Bar West, where the properties established in the later 9th century were actively used into and through the early 10th century (Simpson, 2010b, 86–90). The significance of this lies in the direct contradiction of the historical sources which state that, in 902, the ‘heathen’ Vikings were expelled from Dublin for a 15-year period (Downham, 2008, 26). Temple Bar West’s unbroken sequence of occupation demonstrated that life continued on in Dublin, and the exile probably refers only to the ruling elite of Dublin rather than the general populace (Simpson, 2010b, 86). There is, however, a slight change in building orientations at Temple Bar West around Level 7 (Simpson, 2002, 832). The 9th-century houses are dispersed across the site, and they had northwest-southeast orientations. At some point in the early 10th century, the housing focuses on Site A and the orientation shifts to a north–south pattern. These are accompanied by a new roadway at Level 6 (Simpson, 1999, 25), which overlies the earlier houses. Indeed, similar shifts in orientation are noted at Parliament Street dating to the late 9th or DOI: 10.4324/9781003039006-4

52  The Houses early 10th century (Simpson, 2011, 32). These shifts in alignment may also be visible at the Black Pool. Here, Structure C – the possible Type 1 house – dates to the late 9th/early 10th century (Simpson, 2008, 65). We saw in Chapter 2 that this house has a different orientation from the preceding Structures A and B and indeed is unusually close to B. It is tempting to correlate this with the re-orientation of buildings at Parliament Street and Temple Bar West, suggesting that Structure C may represent the reoccupation of the elite longphort at the Black Pool after 917. This shift in orientation could be read in two ways. Either the builders of Structure C were not aware of the importance of this part of Dublin or this was a deliberate slight, an act of possession of this landscape, much as the original occupants at the Black Pool had intended. This contrasts to Fishamble Street, where the first two levels of housing are very dispersed (as shown in Figure 4.1). These levels are dated to the early 10th century on the basis of an Athelstan penny with a minting date of 935 found in Level 2 (Stout, 2017, 167; Wallace, 2016, 75). Two Type 1 houses stratigraphically predate this coin date. One of them, FS2, though very poorly preserved, was oriented north–south in contrast to the east–west orientation of every other Fishamble Street building. Wallace suggests that this is evidence of the “relatively free use of urban space before the formal allocating of plots” (Wallace, 1992b, 122–123), but this may also reflect a deliberate action in the post-917 reoccupation of Dublin. The intensification of settlement seen in Fishamble Street’s Level 2 could reflect the increase in population and scale of urban development from the 920s onwards. This intensification is also visible at Temple Bar West at this point in time (Simpson, 2010b, 89). The other visible change to the urban landscape in the first part of the 10th century is the construction of Bank 1 at Wood Quay. This 1-m-high flood bank dates to the very early 10th century (Wallace, 2016, 125), just a couple of decades after the construction of the late 9th-century bank sections excavated at Parliament Street and South Great Georges Street. Bank 1 may be an extension of this earlier phase of embankments, reflecting the needs of an expanding population moving westwards away from the Poddle. Existing roads, paths, and lanes may have continued in use, based on property orientations. By the middle of the 10th century, settlement and building sequences appear at ­Werburgh Street, where the first layer of housing appears sometime after the late 9th century. The earliest house returned a dendrochronological date of 924 +/− 9 AD, but this is very early, and Hayden (2002, 66) suggests that these were recycled timbers. The housing here includes pens, Type 1 houses, and a sunken-floored structure (see below) as well as pathways and a metalworking area which, very unusually, was placed right outside the wooden houses. The orientation of these houses is unusual (see Chapter 7). With the establishment of occupation at Werburgh Street, we now see housing sequences across five sites in 10th-century Dublin. At some point after this, but before 950, Bank 2 was constructed at Wood Quay. Sections of Bank 2 were also excavated at Ross Road (Walsh, 2001), Temple Bar West (Simpson, 2002), Parliament Street (Gowen and Scally, 1996),

Ireland’s 10th- to 12th-Century Viking-Age Towns  53 Werburgh Street (Hayden, 2002), and Dublin Castle (Lynch et al., forthcoming). This bank represents a much more significant embankment than either Bank 1 or the 9th-century floodbanks. Bank 2 was constructed in sections, following the Liffey along its high-water line. This suggests that it extended past the shoreline, enclosing the area of the entire early 10th-century settlement, although the point at which it turned is not yet known (Wallace, 2016, 126). Entrances into the enclosed town were probably located at the east and west of the town, aligning with the Slighe Mhór. It is unknown whether there was a southern entrance at this time. The mid-10th century coincides with a reduction in plundering and raiding and a period of political stability under the reign of Óláfr Kvaran (Olav Cuaran). The last Viking raid launched from Dublin occurred in 951, and raiding is no longer seen as the primary source of wealth for the inhabitants of Dublin. Instead, trade – an “alternative ‘urban’ economy” (Clarke et al., 2018, 98) – becomes much more important and reliable; Dublin now becomes the focus of concerted raids from Irish parties (Downham, 2008, 45; Valante, 2008, 108–112). Around this point in time, furnished burial practises disappear (Clarke et al., 2018, 109), but we do not know the practicalities of how this transition occurred. Certainly, there are examples of ritual deposits with apparent Scandinavian influences associated specifically with 10th-century houses (see Chapters 4 and 7). By the end of the 10th century, housing sequences have been established at three more sites (Map 3.1): Christchurch Place (Murray, 1983), Castle Street (Byrne, 2015), and Dublin Castle (Lynch et al., forthcoming). Broadly speaking, the housing and other activity here are in line with the other sites, although there are some notably larger structures here with some slight differences in construction. This size differential led Murray to suggest that this may have been one of the more salubrious parts of the city (Murray, 1983, 54–56), and the quality of artefacts does lend some support to the differential nature of Christchurch Place in particular (e.g. the coin evidence, Woods, 2013). Werburgh Street lies just to the south of Christchurch Place, but its architecture is quite different from these houses (as discussed in Chapter 7). At Temple Bar West, the continuation of the 10th-century building sequence on Site A sees intensive activity with a large number of buildings placed very close together. On the rest of the site, the activity becomes less intense, ultimately being subsumed into a very large open working area extending across to Parliament Street (Simpson, 2011, 32). Thus, by the end of the 10th century, there is a definite sense of difference from one side of Dublin to the other. The mid-10th-century Bank 2 was replaced in the late 10th century by Bank 3. Late 10th-century Dublin is associated with a series of notable names in Irish history: Mael Sechnaill, Sihtric Silkenbeard, and Brian Boru (Downham, 2008, 62; Purcell and Sheehan, 2013, 48–56). These figures jostled amongst themselves for control of what, by this point, was a rich and powerful town with trading, political, and ecclesiastical links across Ireland and Europe (­Valante, 2008, 118–134; Wallace, 2005, 839–840). Clarke calls this the period

54  The Houses

Map 3.1 Map of 10th- to 11th-century housing activity in Dublin. Map data © Google.

Ireland’s 10th- to 12th-Century Viking-Age Towns  55 of ‘urban maturity’ with much more diversity in terms of non-settlement activity, supporting the ‘town’ nomenclature (Clarke et al., 2018, 98–99). These features include the enclosing walls and gates, formal docks, roads, marketplaces, churches, bridges, and administrative places like the new mint and the Thingmotte. While we can see evidence of some of these features in the 11th and 12th centuries, archaeologically many of these are invisible. Searching for Parallels, Part 2 Dublin’s 10th-century parallels are, at best, unclear. Within Ireland, Wallace originally suggested that the 10th- to 12th-century occupation at the royal site of Knowth, Co. Meath may have some Dublin parallels (Wallace, 1992b, 70–71). These similarities include rectangular buildings (Wallace, 2012, 719–721), meat consumption patterns (McCormick and Murray, 2007, 116), and multiple overlapping elements of material culture such as copper alloy ringed pins, hair combs, and iron horse bits (Wallace, 2012, 721–738). However, Eogan suggests that at Knowth up to three houses were occupied at a time, a pattern which is “not abnormal in comparison” (Eogan, 2012, 706) with other contemporary rural settlements. Clearly, this does not represent a density of population. Equally, while there is some manufacturing work here, it is not carried out at scale. On reflection, Wallace concluded that the rectangular form of the Knowth buildings is best compared with those from Ballywee, Co. Antrim rather than the Type 1 house (Wallace, 2012, 721). Knowth should be seen as a native Irish site with connections to Dublin but not in any way an urban place (ibid, 744). Clonmacnoise’s 11th- and 12th-century occupation could also be considered a parallel within Ireland. Documentary references note that 152 houses were burned down in 1179 and that hundreds of cows were taken during another attack, indicating a significant density of population here (Soderberg, 2022, 63–64). However, the building archaeology excavated at Clonmacnoise does not reflect this density, even though Clonmacnoise is a dryland site without significant organic preservation. The 9th- and 10th-century structures and roadways go out of use during the 11th century, to be replaced by pits and wells (Soderberg, 2022, 79). There is no doubt that Clonmacnoise was a large and complex settlement (Soderberg, 2022, 82), but whether it can be compared with Dublin in the 11th century is a question we cannot yet answer. This lack of comparative Irish sites means that Dublin’s closest parallel must be found outside Ireland, most likely across the Irish channel (Clarke, 2020, viii; Clarke et al., 2018, 92), where the 10th century sees a substantial growth in the number of urban places (Blair, 2008, 256; 2018, ‘Countryside and Town: A New Dichotomy’ section; Griffiths, 2011, 157). This expansion is a direct result of Alfred the Great’s policy of establishing burhs, fortified places for defence against Viking raids (Williams, 2013, 16). Whilst the earliest evidence at burh sites is early 10th century, this takes the form of defensive enclosures (Griffiths, 2011, 159). Fully

56  The Houses urban characteristics – streets, property plots, mints, and marketplaces – evolve during and after the 10th century (Blair, 2018, 337–8) in a variety of smaller and larger towns (Blair, 2008; Crabtree, 2018; Hinton, 2008). In terms of archaeological buildings, there are two towns which have structural remains comparable to Dublin. The first of these is, of course, York with its close political links to Dublin in the first half of the 10th century (­Downham, 2008, 83–105; Smyth, 1979). As we saw in Chapter 2, there are no 9th-century buildings from York. While there are 10th- and 11th-century buildings (as detailed in Hall et al., 2015), the construction and internal layouts do not closely resemble those in Dublin, although they are rectangular in shape (­Figure 2.4c). The Period 4B houses are post-and-wattle, but the roof was not supported by internal free-standing roof posts, which means that these cannot fall under Wallace’s Type 1 category. Additionally, the doorways are located in the corners of the end walls rather than the centre. The hearths are larger, the side aisle areas are smaller, and all in all, these are only superficially comparable to the Type 1 house. An emerging research collaboration – the York-­ Dublin Axis – will see new comparative work between York and Dublin which, it is hoped, will shed new light on the nature of connections between these two places. These are replaced by period 5B sunken houses, in the late 10th to early 11th century (Figure 2.4d). The timber cellared building excavated at Hungate resembles the two-storied houses from Coppergate (Catling, 2008; Hunter Mann, 2009). Overall, these buildings may be closest in style to the cellared buildings which date to the early to mid-10th century at 26–42 Lower Bridge Street in Chester (Griffiths, 2010, 125–131). These combined belowground cellars with aboveground accommodation, in possibly as many as three stories (ibid, 132). These are more reminiscent of planked buildings from London, Canterbury, and Oxford. Chester’s 10th-century architecture also features planks or sill-beam construction as well as sunken-floored structures and these cellared buildings. Griffiths (2010, 132) proposes that a series of early to mid-10th-century sunken-floored huts found at three sites across Chester are possible parallels for our Type 4a 9th-century sunken-floored structures. This, however, does not account for the earlier date of the Dublin structures which pre-date the later 9th-century establishment of rectangular post-and-wattle housing. Settlement from 1000–1100 Dublin

In the 11th century, activity at Temple Bar West, Fishamble Street, Werburgh Street, and Christchurch Place continues in much the same fashion as before. The established properties are repeatedly furnished with new houses as and when the need arises. At the Black Pool, Levels 4 and 5 date from the late 11th to the 13th centuries. These levels were heavily disturbed but show that there

Ireland’s 10th- to 12th-Century Viking-Age Towns  57 was intensive occupation here. There are multiple hearths, pits, refuse and post-and-wattle enclosures, boundary fences, and partial house remains (Simpson, 2008, 66). These include possible Type 1 and Type 2 houses which were aligned north–south. Two sites at High Street and Winetavern Street (Figure 7.2, also Murray, 1983) begin their story in the 11th century. At these sites, there is a more rapid succession of smaller buildings, pits, and paths than we see in the larger and more substantial properties of Fishamble Street and Christchurch Place (see Chapter 7). While O’Riordáin’s excavations were located on the south of High Street, similar activity was noted during monitoring on the north side of the street (McQuade, 2010), pointing to the growing occupation areas inside the banks of Dublin. This is what Clarke and colleagues call the period of “urban maturity” with multiple administrative and infrastructural features (Clarke et al., 2018, 99–101). One of these is the establishment of Christchurch Cathedral in 1028. This first church was likely to have been a wooden structure, before being replaced by a stone construction sometime later in the 12th century. This accompanied two smaller parish churches established during the 11th century: St Olave’s within the walls and St Michan’s across the Liffey (Clarke, 2002, 5). Christchurch’s location is highly prominent, atop the ridge of Dublin and overlooking the settlement, the river, and the Slighe Mhór. Indeed, this central location is one of the reasons to suggest that Christchurch Place was the location for Dublin’s moneyers and first mint at the end of the 10th century (Woods, 2013, 58–61). However, Christchurch cathedral is the only one of these administrative features for which we have archaeological evidence. There is no identified minting site, nor is there any 11th-century precursor to Dublin Castle or to the first stone bridge which is noted in 1112 (Clarke, 2002, 4–6). In a similar vein, the archaeological evidence for streets is elusive; they are thought to underlie modern street lines. Simpson (2011, 42) suggests that a slight deviation in the crypts of Christchurch Cathedral may preserve an 11th-century right-of-way which the architect of Sihtric’s new church had to respect. On exposure, this was a surface of beaten clay with a couple of flagstones at the southwest extent of the crypts, just off Winetavern Street. This right-of-way must have run north– south from the river to the centre of the town and beyond (ibid). Christchurch and this right-of-way were located within the circuit of the late 10th-century Bank 3. This construction was maintained throughout most of the 11th century, ultimately rising to 6 m high and 4 m wide at Ross Road (Walsh, 2001, 104–107). A new section of earthen banks appears to have extended westwards from High Street during the later 11th century (Simpson, 2011, 43–46). This extension would have enclosed the presumed site of the bridge, connecting the north and south banks of the Liffey. A further series of ditch sections have been located across the river and along Church Street which also date to the late 11th century and denote the approach to Dublin through its northern suburb, along the line of contemporary Church Street (Simpson, 2011, 54–55).

58  The Houses The relationships between the town and riverside during the 11th century are archaeologically invisible, as they were during the 10th century. Physically, this was an area of alluvial reclaimed lands. One would expect a series of paths, tracks, or access routes connecting the settlement and the river, especially if this was where trade happened (Simpson 2011, 42–43). However, no such evidence was found at Wood Quay, which may suggest that perhaps this was not the mercantile heart of the town at this time. Stillman suggested that the Poddle was used for transport of iron ore from the Wicklow mountains to Dublin (Stillman et al., 2003). This is picked up by Simpson (ibid), who suggests three possible locations for the 11th-century port, close to the mouth of the Poddle, somewhere west of Winetavern Street, or in the east, nearer to the mouth of the Liffey. West of Christchurch, there have been relatively few excavations which recovered 12th- or even 13th- to 14th-century remains within the walls of the town. (See Duffy, 2021, 2022, forthcoming for more recent findings; and Simpson, 2011, 70–105 for Anglo-Norman excavations to 2011.) There were seven churches within the walled town by 1170 (Clarke, 2002, 5), but it appears that stretches of this land laid were left open and unbuilt. This does not mean that they were ‘empty’ spaces. At Back Lane, there is some evidence of cultivation in 11th- and 12th-century levels, implying that this apparently open ground was productive ground (Coughlan, 2000, 208; Simpson, 2011, 47). A couple of centuries later, this part of Dublin would become known as the Liberties and had a reputation for brewing, distilling, tanning, and weaving as well as for being a market site. This multitude of functions may have developed from pre-Norman uses. There is little to indicate that there were permanent structures here, but preservation conditions are less waterlogged than in the city centre, and traces of post-and-wattle structures may not be preserved. Alternatively, these may have been occupied by temporary structures such as market booths, tents, or enclosures – for sailors, soldiers, or slaves. Other open stretches may have been consciously managed as intensively used resources, providing opportunities for productive and creative work, community gathering building, and the potential for expressions of power, control, and surveillance (­Jervis et al., 2021, 237–240). Soil micromorphology studies would be best placed to search for signatures of such activities (Devos et al., 2020, 34–36). In the east, between Temple Bar West and Trinity, there are indications of 12th-century activity from a number of excavations but little which predates this. One small group of 11th-century burials came from Crow Street, but excavations at Meeting House Square did recover some sporadic activity dating to before the late 12th century (Hayden, 2015). This includes a possible Type 1 house and a pair of regularly spaced linear features later identified as a 12th-century cart rut. Further east, towards Trinity College, we know that this was an important area because there were several burial mounds (recovered by antiquarians, see Harrison and Ó Floinn, 2014, 239–240) as well as two important administrative features: the Thingmotte and the Long Stein or Long Stone (Clarke, 2002, 3). The Thingmotte is the Viking assembly place, while the Long Stone was a marker to represent the landing place for Viking

Ireland’s 10th- to 12th-Century Viking-Age Towns  59 longships. However, these are represented only by placenames and antiquarian references; there is no archaeological evidence for the exact locations of these features. It seems that suburban development was focused on the north and south of the town, as the lands east and west are largely empty in comparison with these sequences of 11th- and 12th-century activity. This concentration of housing, streets, and other urban features is what makes 11th-century Dublin “recognisably urban” (Clarke et al., 2018, 10), although, as we have seen, these features were also present in the 10th-century landscape. Waterford

The middle of the 11th century also marks the point at which we see the emergence of urban features in Waterford. The earliest housing levels, featuring post-and-wattle Type 1 houses, date to sometime between the 1040s and 1060s. The city of Waterford is situated on a point between the river Suir and the John’s River (Hurley, 1997c, 7). This point is naturally low-lying, and the rivers and the adjacent marsh provide natural boundaries on two of the three sides (Hurley, 2010, 156–157). This topography has a gentle slope which allowed Waterford to develop in a more regularised street pattern than around the ridge of Dublin. There are references to Viking fleets active at Port Láirge in 852, 858, 861, and 865, and again in the 910s, as part of the return of the Vikings following their 902 exile from Dublin (Barry, 1997, 12; Bradley and Halpin, 1992, 105; Wallace, 2005, 817). From then on, Waterford Vikings appear consistently as actors and aggressors in local and regional politics (Barry, 1997, 13; Bradley and Halpin, 1992; Hurley, 1998). The settlement at Woodstown is active until sometime during the middle of the 10th century (Hurley, 2014b, 347), but the earliest archaeological dates for Waterford’s settlement are from the 1040s onwards. We do not understand the context and relationships between these two sites (ibid, 356–357), and it may well be that there was no contemporary relationship between them. Today, the point of the triangle is marked by Reginald’s Tower. This area was known historically as Dundory, with dun referring to a fort (Hurley, 1997c, 8). As we move further west, the land slopes gently upwards to a height of 6 m at the top of the ridge and expands away from the point. Hurley proposes a four-stage development for Waterford’s topography (Map 3.2) to allow the chronological development of settlement outwards from Reginald’s Tower. Stage 1 is represented by initial activity at the site of Reginald’s Tower. The stone tower visible today is a 12th-century Norman construction which is presumed to overlie an earlier Viking tower, although excavations at the pub next door did not recover any archaeological material (Scully, 2018). Waterford’s earliest enclosure ditches are west of Reginald’s Tower, along Bailey New Street, and at Deanery Gardens, adjacent to Waterford’s Medieval Museum. This lies within Hurley’s Stage 2 expansion. Here, several sections of VikingAge ditches were excavated in the late 1990s and in 2010, producing late

60  The Houses

Map 3.2 Map of 11th- and 12th-century activity in Waterford. Map data © Google.

Ireland’s 10th- to 12th-Century Viking-Age Towns  61 11th-century timbers (O’Donnell, M., 2000; Scully, 2010). However, the Deanery Gardens bank overlay an earlier occupation deposit which returned a calibrated radiocarbon date of 898–920 AD (Scully, 2011). While this is evidence of 10th-century activity here, it is, as yet, isolated evidence and not evidence for 10th-century settlement in the town of Waterford. As we move further west, the chronological development of settlement outwards from Reginald’s Tower becomes clear with expansion in stages (Map 3.2). The next archaeological evidence comes from major excavations around Peter Street, within the Stage 3 area. These excavations, carried out in advance of the construction of a new shopping centre, uncovered a VikingAge streetfront, with houses, properties, and a church, and sections of the town banks and walls (Hurley et al., 1997). The first houses date to c. 1040s to 1060s AD, and occupation here continues until the 14th century. There are 64 post-and-wattle Type 1 and Type 2 houses contained within 14 properties set perpendicular to the line of Peter Street (Scully, 1997, 34). Hurley notes that while the buildings here face the street, they are not exactly lined up and there is some discretion in building location within the accepted property boundaries (Hurley, 1997b, 896). The sequence of activity and rapid build-up of ground levels led Hurley to suggest that house replacement was necessary about every 15 years (Hurley, 1997b, 894–896). In contrast to Dublin’s earliest 9th-century levels, here there are no early sunken-floored Type 4a structures, nor are there any signs of larger longhouse constructions (see Chapter 2). The earliest houses are all Type 1 post-and-­ wattle houses. However, two new construction styles appear quite quickly, after just a couple of decades of post-and-wattle construction (Scully, 1997, 38–39; Walsh, 1997, 45–53). This is an adoption which Hurley terms “an increasingly elaborate range of buildings” (Hurley, 2010, 159). These are the Type 4b cellared buildings (discussed in more detail below), which date to the late 11th century. The sill-beam buildings date to the early to mid-12th century, coinciding with Stage 4 of Waterford’s expansion around the middle of the 12th ­century (Hurley, 1997c, 10). These new building styles are contained within the existing property boundaries, suggesting that this is a gradual introduction of new architectural styles into the existing streetscape rather than external impositions (Hurley, 1997b, 897). A series of east–west roads (High Street, Peter Street, and Lady Lane) run from Reginald’s Tower towards the town walls, while smaller north–south lanes connect these streets to the John’s River and the River Suir. There are only a few lanes which lead from Lady Lane to the John’s River, leading Hurley to suggest that this more southerly part of town was of less importance (­Hurley, 1997c, 10). Unlike in both Dublin and Cork where land reclamation schemes were essential parts of their foundation works, there are no Viking-Age river reclamation works in Waterford. The earliest archaeological levels around the John’s River date to the 15th to 17th centuries (e.g. Giacometti, 2008; Scully, 1999). Instead, expansion proceeded east–west away from the river. It could be that there was sufficient unclaimed land west of the town to allow unfettered

62  The Houses expansion inland without requiring this type of engineering works. Existing ecclesiastical estates constrained the development of both Dublin (with evidence of a substantial monastic enclosure at St Michael le Pole; Simpson, 2011, 15–20) and Cork (the monastery of St Finbarre’s; Bradley and Halpin, 1993, 16–19). However, the earliest ecclesiastical foundations in Cork are situated within the enclosed 11th- and 12th-century settlement (Barry, 1997, 19; Bradley and Halpin, 1992, 120). These were smaller parish churches, embedded within the new community here, rather than expansive and wealthy pre-­ existing foundations. Perhaps there was simply no need to reclaim the more marginal land beside the John’s River for occupation. Equally, it may be that there was a different perception of and engagement with the River Suir than with Dublin’s tidal Liffey and Poddle. A very large ditch and bank marked the defensive edge of the 11th-century Stage 3 settlement. Sections of bank excavated at Arundel Square suggest that the ditch was 8 m wide and 2 m deep, with standing water at its base (Hurley, 1997a, 22–24). Its accompanying bank was 10 m wide. The bank was excavated to a height of 1.8 m but had an original height of 3 m before being topped with an additional wooden palisade (Hurley, 1997a, 24–27). On the outside of this ditch lies Waterford’s first suburban development on Barronstrand Street (­Pollock, 2012; In prep), although it is more properly referred to as extramural – located outside the walls – rather than suburban development. Here, up to four generations of post-and-wattle Type 1 houses were set in organised properties facing onto a north–south roadway. These occupation sequences begin around 1060, making this contemporary with the settlement inside the walls at Peter Street (Pollock 2012; Reilly et al., 2016, 69). These 11th-century dates have implications for Hurley’s staged expansion model of Waterford’s development but will require further dates to revise more fully. The Arundel Square bank was remodelled in the middle of the 12th century. Part of the bank was cut away and replaced with a stone wall, similar in size and scale to Dublin’s 12th-century walls (Hurley, 1997a, 31). At Peter Street, a pair of sandstone jambs, set 1.72 m apart, marked a gateway in this 12th-century wall; this gateway probably also marked a similar break in the earlier ditch (Hurley, 1997a, 29). With a total width of 1.72 m, this gateway would have allowed people to pass in double file, but carts would have entered and exited the town one at a time. The surface of the 12th-century roadway was also visible as a layer of compacted boulder clay, not dissimilar to the surface exposed by Simpson in the crypts of Dublin’s Christchurch Cathedral. This road – the original Peter Street – was one of the three main streets running across the town. A small section of similar surfacing road was also excavated outside PS3:L4, showing the continuation of the road (Figure 2.5b). Cork

The story of Cork’s urban development begins a little later than Waterford’s, sometime around the 1080s. The city of Cork is built on a series of reclaimed

Ireland’s 10th- to 12th-Century Viking-Age Towns  63 islands in the middle of the river Lee, which, until this time, was a series of marshes, reeds, and sand banks. On the south bank of the river, Saint ­Finbarre’s Cathedral marks the site of an early medieval monastic complex (Map 3.3; see also Crowley et al., 2005). There are annalistic records of Viking activity on the Lee in 820, 846, and 914 (Bradley and Halpin, 1993, 16; ­Ní ­Loingsigh, 2014a, 33). The earliest archaeological activity in the centre of Cork is to the east of Saint Finbarre’s, at 3 Barrack Street, where a timber trackway (a togher in Irish) was dated to 1085 +/− 9 AD (Ní Loingsigh, 2014a, 34). This togher may have linked the monastic centre at St. Finbarre’s to the river and marked the road towards Kinsale and the south. The earliest activity on what is known as Cork’s South Island comes from two adjacent sites excavated on South Main Street (reported in Hurley and Brett, 2014). This is a substantial process of land reclamation, or more properly ‘land-claim’ works, to connect some of those sand banks and marshes to create dry land (Beese, 2014, 13). The first act was the construction of stabilising banks and fences on the edge of the marsh. A series of clay layers were introduced to level and raise the ground surface while timber platforms and post-and-wattle fences stabilised this newly claimed ground. Dendrochronological dates from these platforms gave felling dates between 1100 and 1120 at 36–39 South Main Street (Brown, 2014b) and late 11th century at 40–48 South Main Street (Brown, 2014a). This work was undertaken in summer – the mud deposits contain reeds which would have been in season – in phases over a period of 30–40 years. The fences may have stood up to 2.4 m in height and acted as property boundaries (Sutton, 2014, 53). A wattle panel at the edge of the excavation might indicate the construction of an early mud bank with wattle retaining panels (Sutton, 2014, 54), similar in function and purpose (flood defences) to the earlier Parliament Street banks in Dublin. Less than 100 m to the north, smaller excavations on Tuckey Street revealed further land reclamation fences and platforms dating from 1115 to 1122 (O’Donnell, 2003, 13). Clearly, this was a large-scale reclamation of the marshy islands in the middle of the Lee, intensive in scale, cost, and manpower. It was not carried out in an ad hoc nature but demonstrated a clear understanding of the tidal nature and potential of the river Lee for damning and altering the natural flow of the river to raise the natural ground level of the estuarine ground level. Once these marshy islands had been stabilised, the next act was the construction of houses. There are six excavations with housing evidence from the South Island, three of which are adjacent to each other on South Main Street (Map 3.3). Early results from the Beamish and Crawford site shows that the land-claim process was similar here, with infill layers retained by a series of fences and linked by bridges and boardwalks (Hurley, 2021). This may have begun a little earlier in date than 36–48 South Main Street, as initial dates indicate that this sequence of activity began around 1070 (Murray, 2018, np). Excavations at 15 South Main Street, Hanover Street, and Washington Street all revealed 12th-century housing activity with floors, stretches of walls,

64  The Houses

Map 3.3 Map of 11th- and 12th-century activity in Cork. Map data © Google.

Ireland’s 10th- to 12th-Century Viking-Age Towns  65 and material culture (Ní Loingsigh, 2014a). Unfortunately, these were very small pre-development excavations, so contextualisation is difficult. Instead, we turn to the excavations at 36–48 South Main Street, where five properties containing 35 houses were excavated across two adjacent sites. The houses here dated from immediately after the land reclamation works, the late 11th to early 12th century (Cleary, 2014a; Ní Loingsigh, 2014b). The arrangements of buildings, pathways, yards, paved surfaces, and pits of these properties were very similar to those in Waterford and Dublin. The main difference is that not all properties featured post-and-wattle boundary fences. The initial houses are post-and-wattle Type 1 houses. They are a little larger than their Dublin contemporaries but otherwise are very similar. This perhaps reflects that these are the first houses to be constructed here; there may be more space available for construction at the start of the building sequence than in subsequent years. These maintain the expected three-aisled layout, central hearth, and endwall doorways. Very rapidly, however, the new sill-beam/earthfast construction appears in the second quarter of the 12th century (Hurley, 2014a, 488). These houses are a little different from the Waterford examples; on occasion, the same house can combine both stave walling and wattle construction (Hurley, 2014a, 488). Unfortunately, the sill-beam houses are located on the edge of the excavations, and their internal layout is unknown – they may or may not have preserved the three-aisled layout. The key characteristic of this construction style – load-bearing walls – is evident here. By the third quarter of the 12th century, these have become fully developed sill-beam timbered houses, as paralleled in Waterford (Hurley, 2014a, 490). In contrast to Dublin and Waterford, Cork did not have enclosing walls prior to the mid-12th century. Perhaps because of its island nature, it did not require physical defensive walls (Hurley, 2014a, 483). Hadley and Richards made a similar suggestion at the (much earlier) site of Torksey (Hadley and Richards, 2021, 95), positing that it was this notional remoteness which spurred on settlement at Torksey. Indeed, this inaccessibility could have been the reason for the creation of Cork’s island settlement (Hurley, 1998, 174). To us, the idea of living on a dank, wet marsh in the middle of a river is unsanitary and unattractive, but this is a modern conception born from 18th-century hygienist arguments (Burnouf, 2009, 171). Indeed, we should remind ourselves that life on reclaimed wetlands was a very prominent feature in certain parts of early medieval Ireland. There are more than 1200 early medieval crannogs – i­ nhabited artificially constructed islands – in Ireland (O’Sullivan et al., 2021, 58). However, to reach Cork’s newly created South Island would have required a crossing point or bridge. Unlike Dublin, Cork has no known, or suspected, fording points. The Barrack Street togher may have led to and from a crossing point connecting the islands and the riverbank. Hurley (2014a, 480) suggests that this bridging point may have been the catalyst for the occupation of the islands in the late 11th century by creating the north–south transit route which subsequently became South Main Street, the centre of 12th-century occupation. The earliest evidence for a bridge is a historic reference to a local leader

66  The Houses falling from the bridge in 1163 (Hurley, 2014a, 480). The existence of such a bridge is supported by the radiocarbon date from carpentered structural timbers which re-used in the foundations of the 13th-century city wall. These timbers gave a radiocarbon date of 1165 +/− 9 AD, and Hurley suggests these may have been from a large structure such as a bridge (ibid, 483). This bridge would have tied in with the 12th-century stone bank and early revetments uncovered at 40–48 South Main Street which may have acted as a breakwater and quay walls. We have a more populated image of the post-Norman landscape of Cork than the pre-Norman landscape. In addition to post-Norman references to bridges, quay walls, breakwater, and city walls, there are numerous references to intra- and extra-mural churches, watermills, market crosses, open spaces, bridges, and castles, many of which were also present in the 12th century (Bradley and Halpin, 1993). One of these churches was unexpectedly discovered at the Beamish and Crawford excavations. This stone church was initially dedicated to Saint Nicholas but was then re-dedicated to Saint Laurence and operated as a private chapel (Hurley, 2021). The relationship between the church and the houses across the street is unknown. Artefacts from South Main Street hint at participation in national and international trading networks, including folding balances and imported objects such as figs, porphyry, Roman glass, jewellery, and pottery (see catalogues in Hurley and Brett, 2014). However, this may have been at a very small scale, with perhaps even a single household involved. Returning to Function?

Our understanding of Cork’s early decades has grown substantially in the past ten years. We now have a much clearer understanding of the chronology and intention behind the 11th- and 12th-century land reclamation process. This is the “critical formative period” for urban development in Cork (and Waterford) (Hurley, 1998, 175). The scale of this work is extensive and beyond the capability of one household alone, although individual households may have carried out the work in sections (Sutton, 2014, 54). Rather, it is most likely a community undertaking, with an intention here to reclaim a significant portion of the riverbed for habitation. Overall, the settlement sequence and housing are similar to contemporary occupation in Dublin and Waterford, although this archaeology, so far, is concentrated around a single street rather than expanding into many different parts of the town. However, appearances can be deceptive. Taking a closer look at the artefact assemblages reveals a further detail: there is very little evidence here for productive activity at a larger scale. At 40–48 South Main Street, 15 goat horn cores (McCarthy, 2014, 242) and 33 pieces of cut bone (Carroll and Quinn, 2014, 209) were recovered across the entire site. There are no large-scale deposits of wood chips, woodworking debris, or dumps of offcuts of leather or bone. While antler working occurred at all levels of the site, there was no sign of a

Ireland’s 10th- to 12th-Century Viking-Age Towns  67 dedicated workshop (McCarthy, 2014, 249). The animal bone profile at 40–48 South Main Street indicates that animals were brought into Cork ‘on the hoof’ and slaughtered on site, with all parts of the animal represented in the bone assemblage (McCarthy, 2014, 248), indicating that butchery was not a specialised activity. The environmental evidence also shows a slightly different use of the countryside resources. The people living on South Main Street are undertaking arable farming as well as foraging for wild foods, collecting bracken, and sourcing building materials (Lyons, 2014; McClatchie et al., 2014). There is minimal evidence for hunting game (McCarthy, 2014, 248), something which is apparently more common in Dublin at this point (Wallace, 2016, 218–219). In fact, it appears that these houses were just that: houses, places of residence rather than combined living and workspaces as they are in 11th- and 12th-century Dublin. There is little specialisation here, and it raises the question that we first posed in Chapter 2: what is the function of this settlement? It does not seem that these households on South Main Street were consciously participating in activities which differentiated them from more typically shaped roundhouses. On the basis of the archaeological evidence – the material culture, houses, and ecofacts – we cannot point to a sustained difference in function or scale of activity between these houses and their fully rural counterparts. Does this mean that South Main Street does not represent an urban place in the 11th and 12th century? As Clarke (2016, 225) points out, the appearance of densely clustered, nucleated settlement is, of itself, not an urban phenomenon, as nucleated settlement occurs all over Europe in hamlets, villages, and farm sites without ever evolving to a fully urban status. It seems likely that, until the Beamish and Crawford excavations are published, we need to regard the earliest years of Cork’s urban story as a story which is still unfolding. Wexford and Limerick

Both Wexford and Limerick are often named as Viking-Age urban foundations, and 9th- and 10th-century historical records show Vikings activity in both these regions (Edwards, 1990, 179; Ó Corráin, 2001; Wallace, 2005, 818). However, Viking-Age archaeology is in short supply in both Wexford and Limerick and the overwhelming majority of evidence comes from post-Norman and later medieval contexts. In Wexford, Bourke excavated a series of 16 houses which dated from the early 11th century to the end of the 13th century (Bourke, 1988–1989, 1995). The earliest houses were built over a series of organic deposits which built up above natural deposits of marl and windblown sand (Bourke, 1989, 1). They were set within two east–west aligned properties and shifted from northwest– southeast alignment to an east–west alignment sometime during the 12th century. All but one house was of post-and-wattle construction. The exception is House 1(a), whose walls were constructed of sharpened planks, driven directly into the ground (Bourke, 1988–1989, 53). Only one roof-supporting post was excavated in this building, and this was much smaller than usual, indicating

68  The Houses that these plank walls carried much of the weight of the roof. The doorway of House 1 also appears to play a lesser role in supporting the roof here (Bourke, 1988–1989, 50–54). These buildings preserved distinctive aisles, central hearths, bedding areas as well as artefacts, including an 11th-century Ringerike-style decorated bone pendant (Bourke, 1988–1989, 55). These houses, and their occupants, would have been perfectly at home if they were transposed to an 11th-century Dublin street. In Limerick, excavations under King John’s Castle uncovered portions of five 12th- to 13th-century sunken-floored structures (Wiggins, 2015, 2016). These are sunken to a depth of 1.3 m below contemporary ground level (­Wiggins, 1994) and bear a close resemblance to the Peter Street sunken-floored structures. They feature stone-lined entrance passages and horizontal sill beams to support plank walling and do not have hearths. This suggests that, as in Peter Street, these are cellars underlying aboveground structures. Wiggins notes that these are characteristic ‘Hiberno-Norse’ structures (Wiggins, 2015, 35), representing suburban settlement outside the northern walls of the Viking town of Limerick. Incidentally, this demonstrates the characteristic misunderstanding which underlines the complexity of the discussion of ‘Hiberno-Norse’ culture. By definition, Hiberno-Scandinavian material culture should not be distinguishable – it is a hybrid material culture, combining both Irish and Scandinavian influences (Amlé, 2014, 67–72; Boyd, 2015b, 339; Bradley, 1988, 60; Potterton and Murphy, 2010, 58). Here, Hiberno-Norse and Viking are considered to be two sides of a culture war, with one opposing the other. Equally importantly, the two are chronologically distinctive. By the end of the 12th century when this Hiberno-Norse suburb was established in Limerick, there were no ‘Vikings’ in Ireland. Rural Settlement, Part 2 In Chapter 2, we discussed the appearance of isolated, apparently Viking-influenced occupation at 9th-century sites like Rinnaraw, Beginish, and Truska. The difficulties of interpreting these sites as ‘Viking’ sites is that the archaeological evidence, on its own, is not robust enough. However, if we move forward in time to the 11th- and 12th-century evidence present at three of these sites (Cherrywood, Bray Head, and Beginish), we encounter a slightly different picture. At Cherrywood, this evidence takes the form of a pair of post-built rectangular buildings. Structures 2 and 3 were probably contemporary and date to sometime in the 11th or 12th centuries (before 1020 to 1230 AD and 1020 to 1190 AD, respectively; Ó Néill, 2006, 81). Structure 2 has an end-wall entrance and a three-aisled division created by a single pair of internal roof supports and is often called a Type 1 house. However, it has only one pair of free-­ standing roof supports, whereas a Type 1 building should have two. Nevertheless, the postholes for the door jambs were substantial, and these may have played a greater role than usual in supporting the roof. Structure 3 has a

Ireland’s 10th- to 12th-Century Viking-Age Towns  69 transverse internal partition, forming two internal rooms, and an end-wall entrance. An area of stone cobbling between these two buildings might represent the remains of a pathway, similar to those in contemporary urban plots, linking the houses. The similarities in construction styles and possibly even property layout and its geographical proximity to Dublin make it extremely likely that, at least in the 11th and 12th centuries, there was a strong Hiberno-Norse element present at Cherrywood (Bradley, 2009, 48). Bray Head and Beginish are both located at the southwest tip of Co. Kerry (Figure 1.1) and both feature apparently 11th- or 12th-century structures. This places them firmly in the Hiberno-Scandinavian phase. Beginish’s House 1 has subrectangular stone walls and dates to after 1050 (Figure 2.1d, O’Kelly, 1956; Sheehan et al., 2001). The unexcavated Houses 6 and 7 may be slightly earlier. The material culture (a rune-inscribed stone, soapstone bowl, pins, bone combs, whetstones, and honestones) has a distinctively Scandinavian flavour (Sheehan et al., 2001, 116). Sheehan proposed that this site represents an initial 10th-century occupation which stayed in existence for over a century, keeping that Scandinavian origin in mind (Sheehan et al., 2001, 109). Just 10 km away is the Bray Head complex, which includes a number of rectangular and subrectangular stone buildings with bowed walls. (The Bray Head excavations remain unpublished, but see preliminary reports by Hayden, 1995, 1998, 2000, 2001, 2013.) Hayden (2013, 69–72, 114–115) notes that these houses have some physical parallels to longhouse architecture. However, their proximity to later 11thor 12th-century ecclesiastical complexes on both Beginish and Church Island means that any Scandinavian influence at Bray Head requires more consideration (Gibbons and Gibbons, 2008a, 48). Searching for Parallels, Part 3 Scandinavia’s early emporia sites – Kaupang, Birka, and Ribe – which provided 9th-century points of comparison had gone out of use well before the end of the first millennium (Hilllerdal, 2010, 505). However, new urban places, established by royal decree, do not come into existence until the end of the 10th century, and when they do, they are physically dislocated from these earlier sites (Hilllerdal, 2010, 507). These can go through multiple phases of establishment, as exemplified by Bergen in northern Norway (Hansen, 2005, 2016). In Bergen, archaeologists have identified 10th-century activity, but it is dispersed and incoherent; it could not be called urban (Hansen, 2005, 131). Some decades later, a sequence of property plots appears in the northern town area in the early 11th century before undergoing modification and extension in the latter part of the 11th century. These are, according to Hansen, significant events to establish royal power and ownership over the town. The plots were then ‘granted’ to the king’s allies and the townspeople. In the first quarter of the 12th century, several infrastructural projects, including churches and abbeys, passages and walkways along the beach, and piers and jetties, were developed. There are permanent households with associated material culture

70  The Houses located on several properties, who appear to be making their living from trade rather than productive or agricultural work (Hansen, 2005, 233). These appear to be royally instituted and approved expansions of activity, similar to that seen a century later in Dublin following the Norman arrival. However, there is no evidence that such kingly instructions played any part in the expansion of urban places prior to 1170 in Dublin. Dublin before 1170 In Dublin, the townscape underwent a significant change in the early 12th century. This was the construction of the new stone wall which enclosed a much larger area than the previous banks. This, one of the ‘wonders of Ireland’ (­Wallace, 2016, 138), replaces Bank 3 around 1100. This was built in phases, and it measured 1.5 m wide and up to 3.5 m high with three official gates (Lydon, 2003, 63). Its construction is testament to the power of Dublin at this time, speaking to its ability to design and complete this building programme and its control of manpower and resources. Wallace is adamant that the continual maintenance of these walls is indicative of the continuing importance of defensive purposes for the town (Wallace, 2016, 141). However, these acts of maintenance could equally be interpreted as an expression of solidarity with fortified English towns. This foreshadowed the Anglo-Norman town, where the wall itself became a physical expression of urban status, necessary to be perceived as a town but not necessarily required for defence (Bradley, 1995, 15). Within the walls of the town, the pattern of settlement in the 12th century continues in much the same vein as in the 10th and 11th centuries. At Temple Bar West, we see some minor property realignments and boundary negotiations with the continuation of post-and-wattle Type 1 houses (Simpson, 2011, 35). Unfortunately, the 12th century and later occupation sequences at all the other sites within the walled city (Werburgh Street, Fishamble Street, High Street, Christchurch Place, and Winetavern Street) are cut short by post-medieval basement construction (ibid, 70). Fortunately, it is at this point that we see a shift and expansion in settlement at sites situated outside the walled town. At the Black Pool, the limited structural evidence indicates that there were Type 1 houses and associated property boundaries here in the 12th century (Simpson, 2008, 66–90). Close by, excavations at Ship Street revealed sections of 12thand 13th-century housing sequences (Simpson, 2004, 24–34). These comprised four layers of post-and-wattle Type 1 houses, set on top of reclaimed land which ended with sill beam–carpentered buildings with a date of 1289 +/− 9 AD (Simpson, 2011, 76–77). The most substantial evidence for 12th-century settlement comes from Dublin’s first suburban developments on either side of the Liffey (Map 3.4). To the north, the area around Church Street has revealed some interesting archaeology. This area would become known as Ostmanstown or Oxmantown in the 13th century, when the Anglo-Normans forcibly ejected the Norse-identifying population from the walled city (Simpson, 2011, 49). Historical analysis by

Ireland’s 10th- to 12th-Century Viking-Age Towns  71

Map 3.4 Map of 12th-century activity in Dublin. Note that settlement has extended outside the town walls for the first time. Map data © Google.

72  The Houses Purcell emphasises that while the church of St. Michan’s was established in the northern suburb by 1095 (Purcell, 2009, 120), the archaeology indicates that activity began in this part of Dublin by the late 10th century (summarised in Simpson, 2011, 55). However, it is a large site on Hammond Lane which holds most promise for the 11th- and 12th-century evidence. This site, excavated in three sections, revealed three Type 1 post-and-wattle houses set within rectangular properties at Hammond Lane (see Chapter 7). These houses are located on land which is less than desirable: it is wet and prone to flooding. There must already be significant settlement here to force these houses to be built on this marginal land (Moriarty, 2010, 73). South of the walls, houses have been excavated on Aungier Street and the Coombe. The first of these is an 11th- to 12th-century sunken-floored structure (Figure 3.1 and Duffy, 2022, forthcoming). It was not set in a defined property, and much of the site had been impacted by 20th-century cellar construction. The structure itself is unusual (see below), but Duffy feels it is indicative of suburban development here to the south of the Black Pool (Duffy, forthcoming). At the Coombe, two adjacent sites revealed a much more extensive 12th-­ century streetscape (Figure 3.2). Here, ten separate properties were excavated, containing 17 post-and-wattle Type 1 and Type 2 houses across two levels (see Chapter 7 for further discussion). Collins suggested that these properties were constructed at the same time by the same builders (Collins and Weldon, 2019, 53), perhaps an early indication of property speculation in Dublin. Adjacent to these, Walsh uncovered the surface of a new road (Walsh, 2012, 121). This represents a realignment of the earlier road on this site (the possible Slige Dála, see Chapter 2). By the 12th century, this roadway had become a suburban street with houses on one side and the Commons Water on the other. Ireland undergoes a major alteration to its political, economic, and social capital at the end of the 12th century with the Anglo-Norman arrival in 1169. The Norman impact on Ireland is well documented (e.g. Barry, 1987; Bradley, 2021; Mullaly, 2019; O’Keeffe, 2000; Orpen, 2019; Potterton and Murphy, 2010), but their impact on Ireland’s urban narrative is fundamental (Bradley, 1995, 2013; Clarke and Simms, 1986; Graham, 2009; Potterton and Corlett, 2020; see also the Medieval Dublin series; Thomas, 1992). After 1169, there is an exponential growth in the nature and extent of settlement in Dublin, Cork, and Waterford. We see the introduction (and historical documentation) of many features considered to be indicators of urban living, such as the construction of Dublin Castle as an administrative centre, the introduction of merchant guilds, and managed water supplies (Clarke, 2002, 7–8). The Anglo-Normans were also responsible for a flurry of new urban foundations such as Kilkenny and Trim and expansion in the existing centres of Cork, Waterford, Wexford, and Limerick (Bradley, 1986; Gearty and Clarke, 2013; Potterton and Corlett, 2020; Potterton and Murphy, 2010; Thomas, 1992). An important aspect of this urban phase is the administrative paperwork which accompanied the taking and granting of these lands to Anglo-Norman hands.

JOB

DEAN STREET/THE COOMBE12/13thCENTURY

CLIENT

: DEAN STREET HOTEL 124-128 THE COOMBE DUBLIN : HUDSON BAY GROUP

DATE

: JULY 2019

FIG 61

: LEVEL 3 - RECONSTRUCTION (BASED ON FIG 17) : CONOR MC HALE

BY

Figure 3.1 The houses at the Coombe, Dublin in the late 12th century. Archaeological excavations were carried out by Aisling Collins Archaeology Services (ACAS). Reconstruction drawing by C. McHale for ACAS.

Ireland’s 10th- to 12th-Century Viking-Age Towns  73

ACAS

Aisling Collins Archaeology Services

74  The Houses

Figure 3.2 Conjectural reconstruction of the late 11th-century Aungier Street house, Dublin. Reconstruction drawing by Matthew Ryan (matthewryanhistorica lillustrator.com).

These administrative pursuits were seen as an essential part of the urban process (Lilley, 2000, 519). Far from being a new introduction of ‘new’ urban privileges, it probably formalised many existing relationships while extending the reach of the new Anglo-Norman rulers and marginalising existing groups within and around the towns (Lilley, 2000, 523–527). Significant quantities of this paperwork have survived, ensuring a plentiful supply historical sources for the post-Norman period (Potterton and Murphy, 2010, 44–53). In contrast, the archaeology of this period, particularly in Dublin, is patchy and confined to pre-development test trenches, bore holes, and often small-scale excavations. Often, the archaeologists find that the relevant archaeological horizons were removed by basement construction in the 17th and 18th centuries (Simpson, 2011, 70). We could reflect on the overlap here between archaeological and historical records, for without one or the other, we would have a very different picture of medieval Dublin. Evolving Architectures The streetscape of 1170 – the year the Normans entered Dublin – was little different from the streetscape of 1070, or even 970, as we have seen. The postand-wattle Type 1 house was still the dominant style of building which was

Ireland’s 10th- to 12th-Century Viking-Age Towns  75 constructed in almost every property in 12th-century Dublin. However, the streetscape of 1199 or 1200 may have been different. Here, we must turn to Waterford and Cork for analogies, as post-medieval cellar constructions removed large swathes of 12th- to 14th-century archaeological material from Dublin’s city centre (Simpson, 2011, 70). Fortunately, there is better preservation of these levels on Peter Street and South Main Street, where we see that both carpentered timber and stone could be used for residential buildings by the end of the 12th century. Stone construction was more commonly used in monumental architecture – churches, monasteries, castles, and city walls – and was of course common in the countryside. There is one domestic stone building from Ireland’s 12th-­ century urban levels: IN3:L10, Waterford city centre (McCutcheon and H ­ urley, 1997, 161–164). This house combined stone walls with timber roof-supporting posts placed against the exterior walls. It contained a suspended oak plank floor (dated to 1159 +/− 9 AD and 1176 +/− 9 AD; Brown, 1997, Table 16.15, 646; McCutcheon and Hurley, 1997, 164), and there was no surviving evidence for internal divisions, a hearth, or windows. If a second storey existed, it was probably a timber super-structure. The construction of this stone house is crude and poorly finished (Murtagh, 1997, 239), particularly in comparison with the quality of finish of stone churches and the enclosing town walls at this point in time. There are no comparable examples of this building from Dublin or Cork. However, there is a series of carpentered timber buildings found in both Cork and Waterford. These buildings, designated as Hiberno-Norse Type 6 houses (Wallace, 1992a, 57–60), were constructed by professional carpenters. Walls set on top of long wooden planks or sill plates of wood placed on the ground displace the force of the weight of the roof along the full length of the sill plate. This creates a wall which is substantial enough to support the weight of the roof superstructure without free-standing internal roof-supporting posts. These sill beams are secured to the ground but not dug down into the ground. In archaeological terms, this means that there is no negative feature making this style of building less archaeologically visible. Inside the house, it frees up the floor space by removing the large roof-supporting posts which defined the three-aisled division of the Type 1 house (ibid, 60). These timber houses first appear in Waterford in the second half of the 12th century (Hurley, 2014a; Scully and McCutcheon, 1997, 104), but the earliest Dublin examples do not appear until the 13th century (Coughlan, 2000, 205; Simpson, 2004, 2011, 76–77). This chronological gap is likely to misrepresent the presence of earth-fast buildings in Dublin thanks to the postmedieval penchant for cellars. There are carpentered fittings inside some post-and-wattle houses which show that these skills were present in Dublin in the 12th century (Wallace, 2016, 103); it is possible that the comparable houses simply haven’t been excavated yet. Wallace considered the transition from post-and-wattle to this carpentered technique as a simple replacement of one building type with another

76  The Houses (Wallace, 1992a, 57–60). However, at Cork’s South Main Street, several 12thand 13th-century houses merge sill beams and plank walls with wattle panels, indicating that both styles of wall construction were combined here. It is likely that, as we see in Cork and Waterford, there was a cross-over period where both post-and-wattle and carpentered timber buildings were present in ­Dublin’s later 12th- and 13th-century streetscape. Hurley prefers the term ‘earth-fast construction’ to include the various combinations of timber and post-and-wattle materials as evident in more recent excavations. (Hurley, 2014a, 488–489). This would also qualify the Arundel Square stone house as an earth-fast building. A third construction style is also evident in Waterford. These are the Type 4b sunken-floored structures which appear between the late 11th century and mid-12th century. These are quite different from the 9th-century Type 4a Temple Bar West examples. These buildings feature much more substantial entrance passages of stone and timber, and vertical stave walls were combined with an aboveground superstructure, which may even have supported a second storey (Walsh, 1997, 49). They are constrained within the existing properties, which suggests that they represent an evolution of the existing settlement, respecting the established property boundaries. These are considered to be cellars of multistorey buildings rather than dwellings in their own right. Walsh suggests that these may be of ‘foreign’ origin (ibid, 52–53), while Griffiths suggests that their closest parallels are found in Chester (Griffiths, 2010, 132–135). Back in Dublin, there are a handful of sunken-floored structures which date to the 10th century. These appear to be single-storey dwellings rather than the substantial cellars seen in Waterford. The late 10th-century Werburgh Street house (B1) was truncated by the excavation limits, but it survived as a plankwalled pit measuring approximately 3.5 by 3 m. It was sunken to a depth of 0.8 m through two levels of occupation and into the underlying subsoil, but no entrance was excavated (Hayden, 2002, 51–53). There were three mid- to late 10th-century sunken-floored houses excavated at Christchurch Place and Winetavern Street. These were all subrectangular in shape with entrance passages, wooden walling, and roof supports (Murray, 1983, 15–17). She suggested that these were storage cellars, because of the lack of artefacts or organic deposits on the floor. The slightly later Aungier Street example is most unusual of Dublin’s sunkenfloored structures. This was constructed during the 11th century and probably maintained over several decades into the 12th century (Duffy, 2022, 20–21). This sunken-floored structure featured an elaborate stone and timber entrance way and combined wattle and stone walls (Duffy, 2022). This building sits uneasily here; it defies classification using Wallace’s system, underlining the difficulties of relying on typologies without sufficient data ranges as discussed in Chapter 1. Its location may also be relevant to its interpretation as it is located outside the city walls in the suburbs (Duffy, forthcoming). Duffy interprets the building as similar in function and use to the Temple Bar West Type 4a houses, a compact home for these suburban dwellers.

Ireland’s 10th- to 12th-Century Viking-Age Towns  77 Thus, by the end of the 12th century, the urban streetscape combines three different building materials – post-and-wattle, timber, and stone – in varying combinations, which introduced a new variety into the urban streetscape. However, most residential buildings were still post-and-wattle Type 1 houses. In Cork and Waterford, this might appear to be a relatively quick change, as these new styles of building appear relatively early in their (shorter) occupation sequence. Dublin’s streetscape, by contrast, almost entirely consisted of postand-wattle housing from the 9th through to the 12th and into the 13th century. It is probably not a coincidence that this increased variety coincides with the increase in trade links and mobility in pre- and early Norman contexts. The introduction of function-specific cellared buildings for storage and trade indicates the growing importance of trade within the towns (Blair, 2018, 347). In some ways, this might represent a collision of worlds, where formalised ‘business’ premises need to coexist alongside domestic space. We think of work–life balance as a modern concern, but this marks a transition in how business and business interests coincided with the domestic, home space in the towns. It is one of the many transitions to consider in the relationships between architecture, function, and home in the medieval world (Giles, 2014, 23–24). Conclusion What we see from the 9th to the 12th century are the introduction and evolution of Ireland’s first urban stories. Dublin developed earlier – during the 9th century – pioneering the evolution of urban life. Neither Cork nor Waterford emerged until the second half of the 11th century. These first streets in Cork and Waterford feature the same house style – the post-and-wattle Type 1 house – as Dublin, but the architecture of Cork and Waterford changed much more quickly than in Dublin. We see the introduction of new construction styles within a few decades of that initial establishment. In contrast, the houses of 12th-century Dublin were essentially the same as the houses of the 9th century – they represent a much longer period of architectural stability. By the time that the first streetfronts in Cork and Waterford had been established, Dublin was well on its way to what historians would consider full urban status. It had an enclosing wall built of stone, a mint, and a cathedral and was a well-established trading port. The extent to which these characteristics were present in pre-Norman Waterford and Cork remains to be seen. These were both places of sustained population growth and agglomeration, at the centre of localised networks for distribution and redistribution of objects. At this point, we can return to the concept of ‘permanence’ as we saw it in Ribe, ­Kaupang, and early Dublin. Of the four key characteristics – site foundation work, the presence of urban houses, a diverse material culture, and ecofacts indicating permanence and year-round habitation – the first two are certainly present in both Cork and Waterford. Waterford also displays this diverse material culture, certainly by the 12th and 13th century. Therefore, we should consider Waterford an intentional and permanent urban place.

78  The Houses However, the nature of the 11th-century evidence at both Peter Street and South Main Street does require further reflection. The scale of artefacts at South Main Street does not seem to indicate large-scale productive activity, which is one of the primary functions of an ‘urban’ place. We also need to look more closely at the earliest levels in Peter Street to clarify the full extent of that diverse material culture in the earliest levels. Urban-style housing set within defined boundaries is just one of the indicators of permanent settlement, and on its own, the presence of such houses is not enough to qualify a settlement as permanent or urban.

4

Exploring the Houses

Introduction This house – this post-and-wattle Type 1 house – is, as we have seen, fixed in its form from its first appearance in the 9th century. It is a remarkably stable and unchanging building style. This house provides the primary space which anchors each household, and a household archaeology demands that we explore the appearance, character, and potentials of that built space. The strength of this dataset is its scale, and a corpus of almost 500 houses has been catalogued from 9th- to 12th-century urban excavations. This chapter considers the macroscale of these houses, their construction and form, their materiality, and the levels of variability within that dataset. Beginning with the exterior, we discuss the structural elements of these house, considering its construction and morphology. We then enter into the house where some of these structural elements configure the internal spaces, namely the location the roof-supporting posts and the central positioning of the hearth. These are essential elements of the construction of the house which could not be avoided, but beyond their presence, there was some variety in how each household shaped their daily spaces to fit their daily lives. This variety emphasises the materiality of the house, through choices made in the selection and placement of different materials in different locations. The Houses Some 468 post-and-wattle structures had been excavated across Dublin, Waterford, and Cork prior to 2010 (Boyd, 2012). Since then, a minimum of 25 new post-and-wattle houses have been excavated to give a total of 493 Viking-Age houses (see Appendix A, Site Gazetteer and Table 1.1 for details). This represents a very significant number of buildings, but these houses display a range of levels of completeness. The location of excavation trenches in these developer-led excavations depends entirely on the extent and constraints of the proposed development. Many of these houses are just clipped by the edges of these predefined trench locations. The variation also depends on the DOI: 10.4324/9781003039006-5

80  The Houses burial environment and the site formation processes which occurred at each site (see also Chapter 5 for further discussion of these). On excavation, a building could be incredibly well preserved, with all its walls, posts, doors, and floors intact, as many examples at Fishamble Street were. Other buildings are represented by single corners, stretches of walls, or a door jamb which lay just inside the edge of the trench. This makes it difficult to compare across sites, particularly when there are very different preservation strategies at play. Some sites, such as Temple Bar West, were excavated in full. Other sites are preserved in situ, and the archaeology present is monitored via boreholes and piles but not removed (e.g. at 5 High Street, McQuade, 2010). Allison (1999, 15) identifies that the first step in any investigation of houses as social constructions is a familiarity with the dataset. A small number of houses have been repeatedly presented as the standard Irish Viking house. This house has elaborate porches, floors, internal divisions, and high-quality carpentry – often this is FS88 and its contemporaries from Building Level 10 at Fishamble Street. These houses are, however, exceptional rather than the standard. Across these houses, as few as 20 houses have had their entire floor plans excavated. A further 53 houses have, at best estimate, more than 75% of the ground plan (Boyd, 2012). If we extrapolate from this, a typical house contained two side aisles and a centrally placed hearth and would have had one, possibly two, corners demarcated by either differential flooring or an internal wall. Only one in three houses would have had a porch or had three or four corners demarcated. FS88 and CP85 are elite buildings, and the reality is that few houses were of this quality. Interiors were, by and large, emptier architectural spaces with fewer defined features. Houses like BT, FS87, and PS3:L1 portray a more accurate image of standard Viking Irish housing. Constructing the House Post-excavation analysis typically approaches the archaeological remains of these houses as constructions, with assessments of measurements, materials, and possible roof reconstructions presented in the final reports and publications (see Hurley and Brett, 2014; Hurley et al., 1997 for examples; Murray, 1983; Scully, 1997; Wallace, 1992b). Construction methods and details are reasonably similar across the sites, and we can discuss these in more general terms here while directing the enquiring reader to those much more comprehensive analyses of structural and engineering techniques referenced above, where required. Wallace originally estimated that most Type 1 houses fall into the range of 30–50 m2 and that houses above or below this are “comparatively rare” (­Wallace, 2005, 828). The average size of a Type 1 house is 40.71 m2 (Boyd, 2012, 65), but half of the houses excavated fall outside Wallace’s bracket. Type 2 and Type 3 houses are much smaller, with floor areas just over 15 m2. The majority of Type 5 structures, where floor areas are known or can be estimated,

Exploring the Houses  81 measure from 7 to 14 m2, but there are six unusually large Type 5 structures measuring over 20 m2. These are unroofed spaces and may represent animal enclosures, particularly CC and CM, which are 9th-century Temple Bar West structures. The overall size of the house also dictated the width of the internal spaces, dependent on the positioning of the roof support posts (Wallace, 1992b, 12). The central aisle is always at least 1 m wide and more often than not is 1.5–2.5 m wide. There are only nine houses where the central aisle is over 3 m in width, and these are all outside Dublin. This might suggest that, in Dublin, there was a determined effort to keep the central aisle less than 2.5 m wide, perhaps in reflection of the limited space available within the property. The roofed structures are almost all subrectangular in shape, although some of the Type 5 enclosures are rounded. Following his excavation of tightly packed houses at Barronstrand Street, Pollock has suggested that the shape is actually a distorted ellipse rather than an intentionally rectangular shape (­Pollock, In prep). He maintains that these houses have more in common with early medieval roundhouses than true rectangular medieval timber houses. While the post-and-wattle walls appear delicate, the cumulative strength of all the posts and the weaving is considerable. Indeed, extensive analysis and reconstruction work of the Deer Park Farms roundhouses in Co. Antrim show that these were essentially “upturned baskets” (Hurl, 2011, 445), constructed using composite stakes and staged weaving processes to create structures capable of supporting the substantial weight of the roof. Foundations

Post-and-wattle buildings require little in the way of foundations; this is why their archaeological remains are so ephemeral in most contexts. The door jambs, roof supports, and wall posts are all driven straight into the ground. Thin wattles are woven around the wall posts to create the walls while the roofing superstructure is erected on top. Once a building was at the end of its life, any usable elements were removed (Scully, 1997, 36) and the building demolished. The builders then levelled the site using sods, collapsed walls, roofing material, and occupational debris to create a platform for the new building (Geraghty, 1996, 28). The foundation process became more complicated over time as earlier houses had to be incorporated into the foundations of successive houses (Wallace, 1992b, 24–25), and this is seen at Castle Street, where there is a noticeable slope from the house door to the street level (Byrne, 2015, 350). In these conditions, ground levels could slip considerably, necessitating the construction of low post-and-wattle retaining walls (Wallace, 1992b, 25), but Murray notes that, by the late 11th century, larger supporting timbers underneath this platform were required (Murray, 1983, 32). This cyclical process of construction, use, demolition, and reconstruction was similar in both Waterford (Scully, 1997) and Cork. Subsidence becomes a much more serious threat after the 13th century with the heavier earth-fast timber and stone construction. These required more extensive foundation preparations which

82  The Houses disturbed the underlying post-and-wattle remains as seen at Barronstrand Street (Pollock, In preparation). Placed Deposits

There are three unusual deposits carefully contained within the foundations of BN and BD, Temple Bar West and FS75, Fishamble Street. These are individual cattle and horse skulls which were placed underneath the hearths. Animal skull deposits are not common in Ireland, where occasional finds of artefacts, particularly quernstones, placed on housefloors are interpreted as closing deposits marking the abandonment of a house and the loss of a maternal power figure, a mother or grandmother (O’Sullivan et al., 2021, 98–101). In England, placed deposits of loomweights, smashed pots, and animal skulls are associated with closing rituals in Anglo-Saxon architecture, leading Sofield to suggest that destruction was more important than construction (Sofield, 2017, 122). Foundation deposits are more common in Scandinavia or Iceland (Carlisle, 2017), but these are more usually at the base of postholes. At Borg, small golden anthropomorphic plaques known as gullguber were buried (Munch et al., 2003, 254–257), while the Hofstaðir deposits included gaming pieces, a crucible fragment, a human tooth, a spindle whorl, and a knife (Lucas, 2009, 394–396). Carlie (2006, 208) and Falk (2006, 201) both identified the deposition of horse skulls as a late Iron Age practice in southern Scandinavia, while Eriksen ties these to particularly high-status sites (Eriksen, 2020, 110). Groupings of animal skulls like those found in annexe A2 at Hofstaðir are interpreted as the remains of communal feasts but again as closing rather than opening deposits (Lucas, 2009, 399). The skulls from BN, BD, and FS75 could be interpreted as either opening or closing deposits, but regardless, they indicate a clear Scandinavian influence in these houses and households. Walls

The preservation of the walls of these houses is one of the most striking features of Viking-Age excavations. Wood species identifications show that ash was the most common species used in wall construction at Murray’s four sites (Murray, 1983, 22). Ash was also extensively used for door jambs, roof supports, and posts at Temple Bar West (Reilly et al., 2016, 70). The withies were almost exclusively hazel at Temple Bar West, and the same is expected at Fishamble Street, where alder and ash were used primarily for structural wood (ibid). This reflects a similar pattern at Deer Park Farms, where hazel was commonly used in the walls, and a variety of tree species were used for other structural timbers (Neill, 2011, 464). In Cork, there is some oak used in the earlier timber revetment fences, but the building posts are usually hazel (Lyons, 2014, 450). Waterford’s upright posts are ash, alder, or hazel, with some willow, oak, birch, elm, holly, and field maple, but the withies are invariably hazel (Hurley, 1997d, 40). In Back Lane, a slightly later Anglo-Norman

Exploring the Houses  83 13th-century excavation, there is a similar range of woods in the uprights, again with hazel withies (O’Sullivan, 1998, 64). Reilly and colleagues argue that this suggests that local woodland cover, where alder and ash were easily available, was used to source construction material close to the towns (Reilly et al., 2016, 79). The original height of these walls is of some debate. Most of the wall would have been invisible as the roof and thatch over-sailed the walls, effectively providing extra protection against the elements. An entire collapsed side wall was incorporated into a pathway in Fishamble Street with an original height of 1.2 m. Wallace suggests that these walls were unlikely to have stood much above 1.5 m in height (Wallace, 1992b, 31, 55–56), and there is no evidence that there were any windows in any houses either in Fishamble Street (Wallace, 1992b, 33) or in any more recently excavated houses. Another concern relates to the use and frequency of double post-and-wattle walls, and up to one in five buildings featured this double walling (Boyd, 2012, 67). There are no apparent trends amongst these buildings: they represent a mix of building types, towns, and sites. Some of the outer walls may represent a foundation retaining wall (as Murray, 1983, 23–24 suggests) which was not recognised during excavation, and so the true incidence of double walling may be slightly lower than presented here. Wallace argues that such walls would have been damp, as the cavity was stuffed with grass and organic material. Presumably, this was to aid insulation, but it also resulted in the transfer of moisture from the outer to the inner wall (Wallace, 1992b, 31). If this wall type was preferred to add insulation to the buildings, one would expect it to appear from early on in the settlement sequence when houses were less tightly packed and more exposed to the elements. However, it does not: double post-and-­ wattle walls mostly occur in 11th-century contexts (with a few earlier examples, notably FS1 – the first building erected on Fishamble Street). Single post-andwattle buildings are more commonly found, but whether this is a result of economic necessity (the cost of materials or time to construct double walls would have been greater) or some other reason is unknown. It is unlikely that the choice of double or single post-and-wattle walling was related to a desire to reflect wealth or status, as even huts such as FS5, Fishamble Street and BZ, Temple Bar West are double walled. This connects to the question of insulation in these houses. Murray noted no references to daub in literary sources (Murray, 1979, 83–85), and no ­convincing evidence has been excavated to prove or disprove the use of daub (Wallace, 1992b, 13). Given the scale of evidence, its presence is unlikely to have been overlooked during excavation. It seems that, if extra insulation was necessary, it was provided by means other than daub. One possibility is to use curtains, hides, or other simple wall hangings to provide radiant breaks (Figure 4.1), while floors covered with mats or other materials combat heat loss through the feet (Pender, 2020, 16). The participants in the Hedeby house project hung a large blanket against the wall beside the sleeping platform to block the draught (Christiansen, 2009) and found that it changed their perception of

84  The Houses

Figure 4.1 A blanket used as a wall hanging and radiant break in the reconstructed Hedeby house at Moesgaard Museum, Denmark. Photo by author.

that part of the house, saying that it made the house look cosier and more ‘home-y’ (Boyd, 2015a, 38). This would leave no archaeological trace, and such hangings could be moved around as the need arose to act as room dividers as well as radiant breaks. Hangings could be carefully positioned to deliberately block off portions of the house from public view, impacting on lines of sight. This might have been particularly appropriate if the doors of the houses opened outwards and allowed easy visibility into the building. The Roof

In the post-and-wattle house, the roof supports are usually placed in opposed pairs, on approximately the same line as the doorways, creating three internal aisles in the main house. These free-standing posts bore the weight of the roof and were sometimes placed on padstones (e.g. FS104) or augmented with ­additional supporting posts which could be placed against the side walls (­Wallace, 1992b, 26). In Dublin, the substantial door jambs also play a role in supporting the weight of the roof (ibid, 28), but they are less important in ­Waterford (Scully, 1997, 36), indicating regional preferences and construction methods. In addition, very few roof supports remained in situ in Waterford, presumably indicating recycling of these elements (ibid, 35–36).

Exploring the Houses  85 As for the roofs themselves, a handful of worked timbers from Temple Bar West and Fishamble Street were identified as roofing purlins. These are supporting beams which connect the rafters and the eaves of the building (Wallace, 1992b, 53). One timber was associated with a layer of burnt sod and wattle mats overlain by a line of charcoal and identified as a layer of grass growing on the roof of the house (Simpson, 2002, 453). Geraghty found two “‘pure’ redeposited roofing sods” (S28 and S47 Geraghty, 1996, 28). These were clearly different from the bench and floor sods and originated some distance away from the town (no urban taxa were represented). These sods were probably topped with a heavy thatch which kept the sods themselves free of weeds. Most roofs were probably dismantled and incorporated into the foundation deposits of the succeeding buildings. The foundations for FS46 consisted of a ‘wedge’ of material augmented with additional layers of sand, sod, and redeposited organic material. One of the sod layers in this ‘wedge’ contained wooden pegs, c. 0.07 m long, which Wallace believes to be the tips of scoilb or thatch pins (Wallace, 1992b, 25), indicating that this deposit was originally a roof. A burnt deposit from Bride Street in Wexford was identified as a roof layer (Bourke, 1995, 51). This seems to have been a much lighter roof which was attached directly to the underlying wattle structure rather than to an intermediate turf layer. Modern thatched roofs can be highly decorated with ornaments placed on ridges, ornate eave-dressings, and other features. Earlier thatched roofs may also have featured such decorations which have not survived (Figure 4.2). One set of roof objects which did survive are roof finials: decorated wooden ornaments attached to the end of the roof ridge pole (e.g. DW44 or DW108; Lang, 1988). Another piece, DW92, is a decorated door lintel as is DW10, a decorated ship timber which was reused as a threshold. The presence of these wooden objects indicates that structural elements of the houses – the walls and roofs – could also be ornamental. Milek (2006, 109) notes that walls of the central living rooms in Icelandic longhouses could have been provided with decorative wainscoting panels to impress visitors and guests to this very public part of the building (ibid, 144). These panels would also have functioned as radiant breaks. The addition of ornament to the very structure of the house (in the form of roof finials, decorated wall panels, and ornamental door lintels) could have been used as a way to display the taste, wealth, and status of the household to visitors and passers-by. Building Repairs

As with all wooden buildings, these houses required ongoing maintenance throughout their lifespans (Murray, 1983, 85). This would be prompted by ­rising ground levels as well as natural wear and tear of structural elements. The most commonly encountered repairs are replacement of thresholds and internal walls, reconstruction of external walls, and inserting additional roof-­ supporting posts (Boyd, 2012, 90–91). These are reasonably simple and regular

86  The Houses

Figure 4.2 The thatched roofs of the reconstructed Viking houses at the Irish National Heritage Park. Photo by author.

repair jobs, but larger-scale renovations also occurred. One example of this is FS90/A, an early 11th-century house from Dublin. The western wall was moved outwards, extending the length of the house. Simpson (2002, 835) suggests that the prevalence of repairs and renovations to houses at Temple Bar West (as opposed to the more frequent rebuilding at Fishamble Street) indicates the humble status of these households. Murray (1983, 59) also equates repairs and quality of construction with household status at her sites. In a slightly later medieval context, Gilchrist notes that owners and occupiers often wrote their names onto the very fabric of the building as a way to demonstrate their possession of the building (Gilchrist, 2012, 238). These inscriptions indicate the continuity of occupation of the house and, by extension, its household. Inscriptions of runic or ogham are rare but not unknown in Viking Dublin, leading Barnes and Hagland to suggest a re-evaluation of the level of literacy in Viking-Age Dublin (Barnes and Hagland, 2010, 15). While runic inscriptions thus far have been found only on portable objects, it is certainly worth considering whether or not structural elements were also inscribed and, perhaps, prioritised for repairs and reuse rather than recycling. Was there any particular attachment to the salvaging of structural elements and incorporating different generations of building materials into ensuing structures?

Exploring the Houses  87 Doorways

The construction of the doorway itself was an integral part of the building sequence, as the door jambs must be positioned to support the weight of the roof. Evidence for the doorways ranged from breaks in the wall line, to surviving door jambs and spuds, thresholds, or a combination of all of these. There is no significant difference in doorway construction between Type 1 or Type 2 houses, although doorways into Type 5 structures are less likely to have formal constructions. In these rectangular Type 1 houses, the paired doorways are located in the narrow end walls, facing the street, providing a clear movement and sight route through the house into the backyard. Only 40 houses had unambiguous evidence for two doorways, mostly due to the location of excavation trenches (Boyd, 2012, 70). Of these 40 houses, one doorway was usually larger than the other, probably as a result of the slightly trapezoidal shape of many of these buildings. Only two houses had identically sized doorways. Just one house – the complex FS10, Fishamble Street – has three doorways. Its first phase was a very simple Type 1 building which was enlarged two or three times. By its final iteration, FS10 contained multiple internal compartments, doors, and a third external door. This door provides direct access into the southwest corner of the building. This corner was walled off from the rest of the building, measures 3.5 m2, and had a very unusual, raised gravel floor. It also had a doorway to access the central aisle and appears to have functioned as a separate spatial unit. Two doors were found at Fishamble Street (Wallace, 1992a, 29–30). The timber plank door from (FS88 Wallace, 1992b, 180) opened outward towards the streetfront, while the other door (from FS84, Wallace, 1992b, 7) was a portable wattle screen. Wooden spuds (the posts from which the door pivoted) are the best indication of the direction in which a door swung. The spud position indicates the swinging direction of the door. Most spuds were located outside the threshold, indicating that these doors opened outwards. Only eight spuds were located inside the doorways, implying that these doors opened into the house. All eight of these houses were Type 1 structures, and they vary in size from 25 m2 (FS36) to approximately 44 m2 (FS10 and FS91). This indicates that a building needed to be relatively large to accommodate an inward swinging door, which would, after all, take up a considerable amount of space within the house. Wallace (1992b, 29) made the very tentative suggestion that only larger buildings featured substantial doors, and the spud location provides additional support for this. One obvious structural element which could have been decorated or even inscribed is the door leading into the house (as described by Wallace, 2016, 115–116). Eriksen (2019) focuses on doorway furniture, identifying bolts, doorrings, and decorative carvings and painted finishes as potential door features (ibid, 31–37). These, she argues, add to the ritual affect of doorways, that doorways functioned as ‘between spaces’ between this world and other worlds. The  doorways are, literally, the entry into the house. Some entrances were

88  The Houses elaborated by adding porch features, but the nature of the door is not important: the key is that a doorway existed. Pathways direct the caller to the house, leading them along a prescribed route from the roadway into the building. For Beck (2014, 135), this formalisation creates a buffer between the house and the household and its visitors and surroundings. Inside the House The doorway is a transition and a point of control. It separates the household inside from the world outside. It propels us into the building itself as we become aware of the internal spaces not visible from outside. While these houses are of similar construction, the internal spaces can vary quite significantly from one house to the next (Figure 4.3a and b). Once you enter through the doorway, the floor underfoot will consist of either beaten earth or clay or a pavement of timber planks, wattle mats, or stone cobbling. These pavements, or porches, are small, usually less than 2 m2, and are generally placed at the street end of the house. Adding a solid pavement inside the doorway may simply have been a practical solution to the problem of heavy wear and tear, prolonging the life of the threshold and doorway and putting off the inevitable repair works. However, these are often elaborate constructions, suggesting a greater investment than a simple repair job. The porch subsumes one (and occasionally both) end of the central aisle, effectively shortening the aisle and altering the use for that space. There are few artefacts recovered from these lobbies, perhaps indicating that these were transitory and not actively used spaces. Inserting a porch may have been quite a statement in this context – the household could afford not only to construct (and maintain) the porch but also to separate a portion of the internal floor-space. From outside and inside the house, the porch was a statement of household wealth, drawing notice towards it and, possibly, away from other parts of the house. Wallace calls these timber pavements a fad (Wallace, 1992b, 35), but these lobby features are known from across the 10th to 12th centuries, meaning that this spatial fashion statement is as valid in the early 10th century as the late 11th century. In the transition from round to rectangular buildings, the presence of angled corners is the key internal change. In a round house, all spaces are equidistant from the centre, creating (in theory at least) an equality of space. In an angled building, the corners are further from the centre, impacting upon the transmission of heat and light from that central hearth. Lucas (Lucas, 2009, 387) notes that, in Iceland, the seat closest to the hearth has the highest status. Using this as a measure implies that the corners were peripheral, less important spaces and may have felt darker and colder, especially from the vantage point of the hearth. Perhaps this explains why these corners have been somewhat sidelined interpretively, considered only as storage spaces (Scully, 1997, 36; Wallace, 1988b, 5; 1992b, 12) or privies (Johnson, 2004, 31) or relegated to an enigmatic ‘private space’ category (O’Sullivan, 2008, 233).

Exploring the Houses  89

Figure 4.3 The interior of the houses. a) A schematic of the Type 1 house. Image by author. b) A schematic drawing of the Type 2 house. Image by author. c) A section across the Type 1 house. This shows the complexity of layers across the houses. Image by author.

However, these spaces are not empty spaces, as evidenced by analysis of the artefacts found in them, as we will see in Chapter 5. Rather, these corners are active workspaces characterised by lost artefacts and, significantly, craft debris. Indeed, the southeast corner of FS115 was covered in wood shavings, indicating that a very significant amount of work went on there. Whenever possible, re-enactors choose to work outdoors in direct light. When they have to work inside the house, perhaps during bad weather, they choose to work in these

90  The Houses corner spaces. The reason, they said, was that these spaces received the best natural daylight (Boyd, 2016, 214). When dark has fallen, attention within the house focuses on the hearth at the centre of the house. The Hearth

This hearth is both physically and metaphorically at the heart of the house and its household, drawing immediate attention as a fixture in the middle of the house (Figure 4.4). The hearth itself could be as simple as a small spread of ash, charcoal, and burnt material measuring less than 1 m2. Alternatively, it could be an elaborately kerbed setting made of stone, clay, or timber. Most hearths are single-phase constructions, but there are some multiphase hearths. In most of these instances, the hearth is simply re-laid in roughly the same position, but this can be a much more elaborate process as in Building O, Temple Bar West, which had four phases. The initial fire was laid directly on the floor surface, leaving traces of fire-reddened clay. This deposit was then sealed

Figure 4.4 The hearth inside the Type 1 Viking house at the Irish National Heritage Park, Ireland. Photo by author.

Exploring the Houses  91 with grey clay and re-fired. The eastern end of the hearth was then kerbed with yellow clay and re-used. In Phase 2 of this building’s life, the hearth was enclosed by a rectangular stone kerb, and multiple layers of white and yellow ash testified to the longevity of this hearth. It is unusual, but not unheard of, for a house to contain two separate ash spreads, indicating that two hearths may have been in contemporary use. This central hearth is the main cooking fire, as confirmed by the presence of food remains nearby and small stake holes which represent cooking furniture – cranes for hanging pots and tripods to support pots, as in Figure 4.4. Alternatively, cooking equipment could have been suspended over the fire from the rafters on grills or hooks. This would leave no archaeological trace and may account for why there are relatively few noted cooking spits in the assemblage. Re-enactors note that cooking meat directly over the fire like this creates a high smoke level as fats and juices dripped into the fire (Boyd, 2012, 77) and suggests that some cooking occurred outdoors. However, there is no evidence to suggest that exterior hearths in Dublin were used for food preparation. It is likely that, as in Iceland (Milek, 2006, 118), the central hearth was the primary cooking place within the house (Eriksen, 2019, 56). Murray (1983, 37) emphasises the similarities between Dublin’s stone-­ kerbed hearths and the extravagant stone-lined hearths found in houses in Norway and the North Atlantic. O’Sullivan (2008, 242–243) notes that stone-kerbed hearths are relatively rare in contemporary rural houses, lending further support to Murray’s ‘foreign’ interpretation. However, there is a significant difference here: the Hiberno-Norse hearth is smaller and less formal than the traditional Viking hearth. Only 85 of 204 Hiberno-Norse hearths preserved any trace of kerbstones – just over 40%. These usually fall between 0.7 m and 1 m in area (Boyd, 2012, 85) and take up between 3% and 6% of the available floor space within the house. Amongst these kerbed hearths, there are no parallels for the enlarged hearths found at sites such as Aðalstræti or Granastaðir in Iceland, whose hearths measured 4.67 and 3.9 m2 respectively, taking up to one quarter of the available floor space (Milek, 2006, 105). These hearths are ostentatious in their size and implicitly tied into displays of power, status, and wealth – a large hearth implies the ability to sustain a large number of people, including servants, slaves, sailors, warriors, and workers. The importance of the hearth is further enhanced by the rare finds of foundation deposits, which, as noted earlier, are placed underneath the hearth rather than under the roof posts. Eriksen (2019, 58–59) calls this a ‘ritualisation’, suggesting that these deposits are rituals directed at the house rather than the household. This is tied to the importance of communal consumption in creating community identities, building on Brink’s (2008, 26–27) assertions on the importance of generosity of food, drink, and hospitality to make or break a household’s reputation. Control of the hearth therefore results in control of these elements – heat, light, and food – and this is emphasised physically by the centrality of the hearth and its position at the heart of the movement routes through the house.

92  The Houses In contrast to the enlarged longhouse hearths, the hearths from these urban houses are quite small. The largest hearth recorded in Ireland is a poorly preserved hearth from House 14 at 40–48 South Main Street in Cork. This measured 2.4 m by 1.2 m in size, but this reflected the extent of hearth debris rather than the original hearth dimensions (Ní Loingsigh, 2014b, 66). Using the same logic of enlarged hearths reflecting hospitality, we can suggest that these urban hearths were designed to feed smaller numbers of people. While the hearth is still a crucial feature of the home, it becomes a much more domestic and private feature, to supply and feed the household rather than the wider community. Making Spaces

Flanking the central passageway and the hearth are the ‘side aisles’ – the spaces which abut the long sidewalls, hence the name. These are usually divided from the central aisle by revetting walls, and there are two types of side aisles: aisles which extend the full length of the house and aisles which are flanked by corner spaces. The former is more commonly encountered in Waterford (see Chapter 6), resulting in houses which consist of essentially three separate spaces: the two side aisles and the central aisle, with no corner spaces. The side aisles in the Peter Street houses also tend to be narrower, creating a wider central aisle as noted above and effectively freeing up more floor space. There are also some houses with side aisles which extend around more than one wall of the house – usually Type 2 houses. One sequence of Fishamble Street buildings is worth noting: the succession of houses at the rear of property 4, FS23, FS29, FS41, and FS84. All these buildings feature L- or U-shaped side aisles; however, only FS22 and FS84 are classed as Type 2 houses, whereas FS29 and FS39 are Type 1 houses. The side aisles measured between 1 m and 1.75 m wide and 2–4 m in length and had an average area of 5.29 m2. These side aisles are most commonly found within the Type 1 house, usually, though not always, in a paired arrangement. There was significant variation in size from house to house; in FS22 the area of the side aisle was 1.44 m2, while FS97 measured an exceptional 12.7 m2. In real, practical terms, this must also mean a difference in how the spaces were used. To take an example, both the western aisle in BT/2, Temple Bar West and the southern aisle in 18a (40–48 South Main Street, Cork) were 3 m long. However, BT/2’s aisle was 1.7 m wide, while 18a’s aisle measured 0.9 m wide, making BT/2’s aisle almost twice as large. This wider aisle provides a deeper arena, allowing people to cluster together, while the narrower aisle creates a linear spread of people and activities. This linear spread may represent a more traditional manifestation of the hierarchical nature of the household, with the most important people placed at the centre of the house, by the hearth. This is the type of spatial arrangement seen at Cille Pheadair (Milek, 2001) and other longhouses on Uist in the Western Isles of Scotland (Sharples, 2020). Interestingly, the artefact analysis of FS90/A indicates that there were very few artefacts from

Exploring the Houses  93 the side aisles of this house, which were just over 1 m in width, supporting the suggestion that these spaces were consciously used in different ways (see Chapter 4). The term ‘side aisle’ is consciously used here as ‘bench’ conjures images of portability and ‘platform’ implies a walking surface which can be walked over. Neither is suitable here as these side aisles were fixed units and most were not intended as walking surfaces. These spaces are presumed to have served as areas where the occupants could sit or lie and carry out day-to-day tasks (e.g. Johnson, 2004, 31; Roesdahl and Scholkmann, 2007, 163; Wallace, 1988a, 4). However, they were not simply passive ‘resting places’ but rather were stages upon which the daily activities of the household occurred. The passive roles visualised when these spaces are called ‘benches’ or seating areas reflect only one side of the story. These were productive spaces for multiple activities: food preparation, craftwork, repairs, talking, entertaining, and teaching. The members of the household did not sit mutely at the side of the house; they interacted with each other through words and actions. These interactions were moulded by the spaces available to the household. The central aisle, dominated by the hearth, was a negotiation space. Herschend notes that, in the Iron-Age hall in Scandinavia, the high seat is usually located between the fireplace and the side walls (Herschend, 1998, 25–27). This is also borne out in Icelandic longhouses, from textual evidence (Dasent, 1861) as well as archaeological evidence (e.g. Gunnell, 2001; Lucas, 2009, 387; Milek et al., 2014). The hearth is a key location in terms of the possession of power within the household. The corners and lobbies were situated at a remove from the middle of the house and were potentially perceived as lesser spaces. The side aisles become necessary and usable spaces by virtue of their proximity to the hearth and the centre of the house. Eriksen (2019, 54) notes that there are storage rooms, entrance rooms/ transitional spaces, byres, and the room beyond the byre in addition to the main room in the longhouse, all of which perform different functions. Milek (2006, 135) identifies both annexes and gable rooms in 9th- and 10th-century Icelandic houses, concluding that they represent more private, familial spaces not accessible to visitors. The Irish urban house consists primarily of aisles and corner spaces. Occasionally, porches are added but, by and large, there are far fewer separate internal rooms than in the longhouse. There are only two houses with external annexes. One of these – CP 85/1 from Christchurch Place – was a latrine while the function of the annexe attached to HSB/1 at High Street, ‘1962-3, is unknown. The storage and byre functions traditionally found in the longhouse are removed from the main urban house to other structures within the property. It is rare that the urban houses have defined end-rooms, with just eight houses which feature such large end-rooms. Two houses at Christchurch Place – CP6/1 and CP300/1 – feature pairs of end rooms (Murray, 1981), a very unusual arrangement of space and one which lends support to the interpretation of this site as a higher-status location within Dublin.

94  The Houses Bounding Space

Each of these spaces is, of course, bounded in one way or another whether by a physical boundary or a more subtle ‘micro-boundary’. Internal walls are the most obvious method of separating space within the building, during both its life and its archaeological interpretation (Figure 4.5b). These walls are almost exclusively located in relation to the roof supports, either running on the longitudinal axis between pairs of roof supports or branching out to meet the side or end walls dividing off the corners. Each building can contain several internal walls, usually of post-and-wattle, although later on, sill-beam construction styles appear, announcing the introduction of new carpentry styles (Wallace, 1992a, 60). The original height of these internal walls is unknown, but

Figure 4.5 Details of the reconstructed Viking houses at Moesgaard Museum, Denmark and at the Irish National Heritage Park, Ireland. a) the rafters used for storage at the Hedeby House reconstruction at Moesgaard Museum. Photo by author. b) the straw-packed side aisle and the revetting post-and-wattle wall in the Type 1 Viking house at the Irish National Heritage Park, Ireland. Photo by author. c) the stone paving inside the door of the Type 1 Viking house at the Irish National Heritage Park, Ireland. Note the beaten clay floor of the central aisle and the sheepskin on the floor in the corner. Photo by author. d) closed corner compartment, walled off with a wattle screen and stave planks but open above the post-and-wattle walls. Photo by author.

Exploring the Houses  95 Wallace’s preference was to see them as low barriers (Wallace, 1992b, 12) inspiring the ankle-height walls seen in reconstruction drawings. A number of internal walls in Temple Bar West survived to heights of 0.12 and 0.30 m (Simpson, 2002). Taller dividing walls provide a very different barrier than a knee- or waisthigh wall, depending, of course, on the perspective of the viewer. The same barrier is encountered in different ways by adults and children. Some partition walls may have been erected as ‘safety gates’, simply to keep the children (or animals) in or out of a certain area. The materiality of the walls is also relevant: as a barrier, a solid stave wall is a different from a portable screen or a post-and-wattle wall. On rare occasions, gaps in these internal walls are marked by larger upright posts which are interpreted as door jambs. These doorways most often partition off the corner from the porch rather than the side aisle, implying that the side aisles and corners were not connected. This implies that some side aisles were fitted with doorways, and although Wallace (1992b, 38; 2016, 112) suggests that some of these are for the purposes of removing rotted straw from the base of these aisles, others may mark fully separate rooms. The height of the door and the dividing walls is key to interpreting the nature of these doorways. Whether they reached to the ceiling or were half-doors (similar to stable doors) would make a significant difference to how they appeared within the house and to the household (Figure 4.5d). Unfortunately, no dividing walls survived to full height, and so the nature of these partitions is a matter of opinion. Regardless, they indicate that there clearly was a tendency to partition off certain sections of the house and restrict physical and visual access to these spaces. More subtle changes in floor levels and materials also divided spaces, and these ‘micro-boundaries’ signal a change from one part of the building to the next. An obvious micro-boundary is placing a threshold to a side aisle or corner where a person entering that unit would have had to deliberately step over the threshold. Other boundaries such as portable wattle screens and curtains are virtually invisible archaeologically, but the recovery of wattle screens reminds us that solid walls were not the only limits to movement. Milek (2006, 145) suggests that, in Icelandic longhouses, steps up and down were carefully placed at room transitions as ‘visual cues’ to indicate restricted access. However, the floors in our Irish houses were kept quite level and had no steps. Indeed, tracing the site levels for the floors in property 3, Peter Street, reveals that there is very little change across the floors. Within the central aisle, changes in floor level are minute, so the most obvious ‘steps’ within a house are the changes in floor level from the central aisle to the side aisle units. This very obvious change was augmented by the provision of different flooring materials in these different spaces. Floors and Pavements

The floor cover in each spatial unit within the house could vary as the initial sod foundations were covered with layers of earth and clay and deposits of ash,

96  The Houses wood chips, mud, and organic materials (Figure 4.3c). Gravels are sometimes incorporated into these deposits, presumably to aid drainage. At Whithorn in Scotland, Hill (1997, 185) suggested that the occupants carefully chose finegrained silts to use as flooring material. There are three houses with coloured clay floor deposits, but there is little to suggest in Ireland that similar choices were consciously made. The parts of the building most often formally ‘floored’ are the porches and corners, while the central and side aisles are simply re-­ covered with new layers of organic materials. These floors were laid and re-laid over time as they were trampled and subsided and there is a distinct preference for organic, ‘soft’ floors in the central aisle. These organic floors are easy to lay and replace while negotiating around the hearth. Geraghty noted that small scoops and pits were often dug out around the hearth in order to temporarily store food during cooking (a pit in the east of the central aisle of FS100, Fishamble Street, was full of mussel shells; Geraghty, 1996, 69). This would not be possible if the central aisle was covered with more permanent flooring. So, while the central aisle was primarily a passageway, a thoroughfare through the house, it was also manipulated as a storage area. Bundles of brushwood comprise the most common filling material in the side aisles, where they are often found with straw and occupation deposits (see Figure 4.3c). There is a relatively high number of side aisles where the occupation debris built up directly above the sod foundation, indicating that these were not filled with brushwood. At A5, Werburgh Street, both side aisles were clearly differentiated, but one contained brushwood and the other did not. This implies that the two side aisles were viewed differently and, importantly, used differently. A small number of side aisles had ‘hard’ floor surfaces (wattle mats, plank, or stone paving) more commonly associated with areas of heavy footfall or wear, like the lobbies. Their appearance in side aisles and corners suggests that these spaces were not for resting or sleeping. As will be discussed in Chapter 6, these spatial units are not part of the routeways through the house, and the use of hard-wearing flooring materials indicates that these side aisles may have fulfilled another function. In the corners, wattle matting is the most common floor surface encountered, followed by stone, timber, and combinations of paving. When multiple corners are paved in one house, wattle mats are still the most common pavement. Carefully fitted plank floors are relatively rare, but stone and combination floors are more common. Very unusually, two buildings – HSB/1 and CP253/1 – display corners which were filled with brushwood, a material much more usually encountered in the side aisles. The porch and area immediately around the entrance (both inside and out) would have been subject to a great deal of wear and tear, which makes paving this area a logical action. The composition of porch floors can be very complex (Figure 4.5c). This is most extravagantly displayed in FS88, an exceptional building. Here, we see a sequence of five layers in the western lobby: a gravel foundation; an organic build-up containing hazelnuts; a rough stone slab paving; a layer of mussels, periwinkles, cockleshells, and oysters; and a final stone pavement. This internal pavement connects to a pavement outside the house

Exploring the Houses  97 and is a refinement of an earlier paving event (A. Corless, pers. comm.). This elaborate flooring sequence is similar to the sequences seen in the corners and characterises a common way of maintaining heavily used areas. The apparent variety of pavement styles in these houses (combination, wattle screens, stone pavements, gravel spreads, or plank floors) may actually be misleading as FS88 clearly shows there can be a long sequence incorporating multiple elements. The floor surface confronting the archaeologist may be from any stage in this process, especially when we consider that some floors may have been removed for re-use elsewhere. These different materials (wattle mats, stone paving, trampled earth, brushwood, planks, wood chips, ash, gravel, or timber) add to the sense of different spaces. Stepping from one floor to another would be felt underfoot, triggering a mental recognition of movement. Similarly, the movement from a hard floor surface to the organic, softer side aisle would have acted as a clue to the senses. Even visitors moving through the house could feel (and hear) the change from clay to a wooden or stone floor, indicating to them that they had moved from one section of the house to another, possibly even alerting them to any known social gaffes or messages. Experimental work shows that the smoke from central fires rises to a certain level where it remains, forming a ‘smoke ceiling’ (Nicholl, 2005, 30). This obscures visibility at eye level when standing, and inhabitants would have relied more heavily on their sense of touch and feel to negotiate their way around the house. At night-time, visibility in the house is low and this ‘clueing’ would have been essential to allow movement through the house. Fredengren suggests that, on occasion, pavement materials were used to make a statement about the identity of that household; for example, where ships’ timbers were incorporated into pathways, this denoted the household connection to the sea and travels (Fredengren, 2007, 289). Whilst this is an interesting suggestion, it is more likely that the choice of paving type was dependent upon the types of activities which would occur on that pavement. Wallace suggests that most pavements were laid in order to provide firm walking surfaces but also to act as surfaces upon which crafts or domestic work could be carried out (Wallace, 1992b, 35). However, the corners are unlikely to have suffered a great deal of trampling, so why were so many corners carefully floored? The most common flooring surfaces in these corners are wattle mats, followed by stone paving, timber, and combinations of pavements (i.e. wattle/ stone, or wattle/plank, or stone/plank). Brushwoods are very rarely found in the corners, only two buildings display such materials (HSB/1 and CP253/1), again indicating that choice of flooring material was deliberate. If we accept that pavements were also intended to act as work surfaces, then this implies that the most physically demanding and heavy activities occurred in the corners of the houses. The corners were not passive spaces. From this, the impression which emerges is that the middle of the house was not a space where many activities took place. Instead, it was a communication zone, negotiating access and movement through the house and also allowing

98  The Houses both sides of the house to interact. The insertion of porches, separate rooms, internal doorways, and (rare) end rooms formalised the appearance of the interior and added a certain grandeur to the house. The side aisles were where people gathered, either clustered together in the wider aisles or spread out along the narrower aisles, and the activities undertaken in the aisles would necessarily have depended upon the space and light available. The corners, in contrast, were functional zones, used for storage but also active areas where work took place. Furniture and Fittings

These houses are relatively small, at least in comparison with modern homes, and the spaces were kept relatively clear. Ireland’s housing tradition is one of frugality, with relatively little formal furniture found within most of Ireland’s vernacular housing up until the 18th century (O’Reilly, 2011, 209). In relation to early medieval housing traditions, Jones distinguishes between fixed and semi-fixed fittings, the side aisles, hearths, and doorways, and portable objects, such as artefacts (Jones, 2012, 24–27). Furniture is something added to a building to make it more comfortable to live in. Furniture can be portable or be intended to assist in the carrying-out of a task. Whilst furnished burials and medieval churches contain some items of furniture from early medieval Europe, furniture was relatively rare in domestic contexts until the medieval period (Roesdahl and Scholkmann, 2007, 161). Furniture can be divided into functional groups: seating (chairs, benches, and stools), storage (boxes, chests, cupboards, and shelves), tables and other surfaces (e.g. workbenches), beds, and children’s furniture (ibid, 176). There are few direct references to furniture recovered from these houses, with only 23 known items of furniture (Boyd, 2012, 88). This includes hearth furniture such as cooking spits and pot cranes, wattle screens, bed bases, and seating. Closer inspection of finds registers indicates that other items of furniture included barrels (indicated by barrel hoops and staves), chests (brackets, locks, and mounts) and lockable objects (chests or doors implied by keys and locks), while Lang’s (Lang, 1988) catalogue of decorated wood includes bench ends and chair pommels, confirming that there was both communal (benches) and individual seating. Indeed, the presence of decorated chair pommels could indicate the presence of formal ‘high seats’ as discussed earlier. Overall, the houses contained relatively few portable items of furniture, most of which were removed prior to the end of the house’s life cycle for re-use in the next building. The same goes for the smaller objects within the house – the tools, stashes of raw materials, bowls, clothing, and personal items which make up the household’s possessions. This echoes the salvaging of structural elements such as door jambs and roof supports, indicating a significant degree of re-use, repair, and recycling. A facile observation would be that this represents a more sustainable lifestyle, with limited availability of goods and limited replacement strategies.

Exploring the Houses  99 Chests, buckets, barrels, boxes, and other portable storage containers were regularly used, some of these extra containers were kept in the ancillary buildings (see FS84, Chapter 5), but other storage spaces must have existed in the main house. At Borg (Munch et al., 2003, 254) and Cille Pheadair (Parker Pearson et al., 2004, 246), the archaeology indicated that shelves and larger storage units had been used to hold objects. At Beginish, O’Kelly suggested that a series of holes 1.5 m above the floor level may have been shelving supports and that wall cavities were ‘keeping holes’ (O’Kelly, 1956, 165). This would allow a variety of more permanent storage options, raised above the floor level for security. In contrast, Geraghty’s temporary storage pits in the floor were less secure. These appeared to have contained hazelnuts or molluscs for cooking, and these pits were erased and filled back in when they had fulfilled their purpose (Geraghty, 1996, 21). Milek and colleagues suggest using hearth ash to erase these (Milek et al., 2014, 159). Roofs provided additional usable space, usefully removed from ground-level activity areas. The floor space is relatively limited, and what space there was around the hearth also acted as a passageway through the house. It makes sense to keep this space clear, and the roof (and the rafters) provided extra storage space where Wallace envisaged hide loft platforms (Wallace, 1992b, 28). Re-enactors frequently utilise this space (Figure 4.5a): during the Hedeby house project, the dough for each day’s bread was placed in the rafters above the hearth to prove (Boyd, 2015a, 38). Fresh water storage must also have been required as, despite the location of the towns on riversides, there were no wells within the town. Obtaining and storing enough water for drinking, cooking, washing, and productive work must have been ongoing concerns. Some of the many barrels must have been used for this purpose, perhaps the solitary example of a barrel pit in WT21/2 evidences this, while some of the pits in the yards may also have acted as sumps or wells (just as they did in York; Hall et al., 2004, 394). Conclusion The main house – the post-and-wattle Type 1 house – is a complex construction containing multiple functions within a relatively small structure. It provided the main living space for each household. The roof supports are the most important internal feature in the Type 1 house as they create and divide the interior spaces. Different arrangements of aisles, corners, porches, and end rooms allowed different configurations of activities arranged around the roof supports and central hearth. The smaller houses contain some of these elements – differentiated corners, side aisles, pavements, and hearths – but not in the same numbers or concentrations. Even when the construction styles move away from the Type 1 style with its requirement for free-standing roof-supporting posts towards construction methods featuring load-bearing walls, the builders continued to place posts at traditional roof-supporting ­locations (as discussed in Chapter 4; see also Wallace, 1992b, 57). This has

100  The Houses two implications: (1) that the builders were not yet familiar with this construction method and (2) that either the builder or the owner believed that roof posts and, consequently, the three-aisled division of space were necessary for a house in 11th-century Dublin. Regardless of the external appearance and construction of the house, the interior had to be arranged in a particular way. Beyond this, certain elements of the buildings (the doors, the floors, or the hearth) were emphasised to create a more elaborate or formal sense of space. This included the addition of paved areas, partitioned corners, porches, and elaborate hearths. Portable objects such as chairs, benches, or lockable chests could have been used to add additional emphasis within this architecture. Objects, particularly valuable or status-related ones, were likely to have been placed on display within these houses. Indeed, elements of the construction itself – the doorways or the roof posts – could have been decorated for display purposes. As the household’s primary living space, the house contained and structured a great deal of each household’s activities. It also contained the objects which the household required to undertake those activities, the foods, supplies, and tools which enabled each household to go about those activities. In the following chapter, we turn to these objects to explore these activities.

Part 2

The Households

5

Artefact Distribution Studies Visible and Invisible Work Practices

Introduction Artefact distribution studies are one of the mainstays of household archaeology. They provide microscale analyses of individual households and their practices, choices, and day-to-day lives. In this chapter, we explore the artefact distribution patterns from nine houses at Fishamble Street, part of the Wood Quay excavations. Wood Quay represents the largest-ever excavation of urban Viking-Age material in Dublin and across Europe, and 127 complete or partial building plans were recovered from the Fishamble Street site alone (Wallace, 1992b). The quantities of artefacts recovered from Wood Quay are simply staggering. Over 150,000 animal bone fragments and 205,000 sherds of 13th- and 14th-century pottery were examined (Wallace, 2016, 217, 380). It represents a vast assemblage of material whose analysis is, as yet, incomplete (Clarke, 2016, 223). We are limited to targeted studies of individual materials, a traditional approach to artefact studies (Swift, 2016, 86–87). There are volumes on textiles and head coverings (Wincott Heckett, 2003), runic inscriptions (Barnes et al., 1997), and decorated wood (Lang, 1988), amongst others. Whilst these reports reference find contexts, they are not integrated with stratigraphical data, precise chronologies, other find materials, or environmental data. Until the stratigraphical narrative from Wood Quay is finalised, these reports represent a limited and partial account of these artefacts. Artefact distribution studies are commonplace in Viking-Age archaeology, providing important interpretive content for many Viking-Age house excavations; see, for example, Borg, (Munch et al., 2003), Bornais (Sharples, 2005, 2020), Cille Pheadair (Milek, 2001), Coppergate (Mainman and Rogers, 2000), Kaupang (Skre, 2011), and Hofstaðir (Lucas, 2009) (e.g. Mosfell, Hansen et  al., 2014). This approach culminated in the 3D spatial recording system employed at the Northern Emporium Project at Ribe (Croix 2022). Whilst all these studies integrated artefact distribution into the project design and excavation, work on artefact archives demonstrates that there is great potential in revisiting older archives, such as Croix undertook at Ribe (Croix, 2015), in Iceland (Milek, 2006) and Bergen (Hansen, 2005, 2016). Here, retrospective DOI: 10.4324/9781003039006-7

104  The Households surveys of artefact distributions demonstrate that, despite the challenges of working with archive material, these analyses provide fresh insight into the houses and their households. There are fewer artefact distribution studies in Irish excavations, and many sites simply do not have the levels of artefact retrievals to undertake such ambitious studies. Jones (2012) demonstrated that even where there are few artefacts, there is still much value in assessing their findspots, while McDowell (2005) shows the greater potential of larger-scale analyses at atypical sites like Deer Park Farms. In contrast to more traditional single-material studies, each of these VikingAge projects considers the complete finds assemblages from the site. With the exception of the Northern Emporium assemblage, these artefact assemblages are, generally, much smaller in number than those from Dublin, making such contextualisation a little easier. Indeed, with the advances of digital technology, perhaps it is time to rethink how we present such finds reports (Skre, 2011, 13–14). The traditional finds report presents a systematic survey of a particular artefact type or chronology, usually favouring description rather than interpretation or contextualisation. Such reports are limited particularly by the costs associated with the necessary illustrations required to make them successful reference catalogues (ibid). Skre suggests that the published finds report should evolve into a more engaging form of communication and consider entire finds assemblages as reflections on the nature and character of a particular excavation. As noted earlier, any assessment of the Fishamble Street assemblages is limited by dint of the incomplete nature of the post-excavation analysis. Despite this, there is still value in undertaking such analysis, not least because it provides a framework within which to assess the pitfalls and future potential of working with this archive. The nine houses selected for analysis were a mix of different building types, from different stratigraphic levels of the excavation (Figure 5.1, note that the insets display the artefacts associated with the three Type 5 houses). In total, 752 artefacts were recorded during excavations from eight of these buildings (Table B9). The ninth building – FS34, a Type 5 structure – had no finds. Categorising Artefacts The first challenge was to standardise the recording of these artefacts to allow comparison across the buildings. In any assemblage, there are multiple and overlapping ways to categorise the data, from material to artefact type to context (Allison, 1999, 9; Swift, 2016, 71). At Fishamble Street, each artefact was identified during initial post-excavation analysis by material and presumed function, resulting in a wide-ranging dataset with little standardisation. To overcome this, I assigned each object to one of 16 different categories, based around object function. Such categorisation is typically found across artefact distribution surveys. At Kaupang, Skre’s eight categories were built around the activities which they indicated rather than artefact function: domestic, blacksmithing, metal casting, glass-bead making, textile production, amber-working,

Artefact Distribution Studies  105

Figure 5.1 Fishamble Street building sequence showing houses selected for artefact distribution studies, site plan from Wallace (1992b), Figure 18 © National Museum of Ireland.

106  The Households bone/antler-working, and other activities (Skre, 2011, 399–401). These categories focus on productive capacity and emphasise economic production, trade, and outward connections. There are extensive discussions of how these activities were identified within each property (ibid, 405–415). The result is that these visible and productive activities are more apparent in the archaeological record. These tend to be interpreted as ‘male’ activities. In contrast, ‘female’ work – textile production, cooking, and caring – is categorised into two classes, representing just one quarter of all work visible at Kaupang. This activity – the domestic load – is background noise, hidden behind these other activities, a passive and incidental contributor to the household economy. Domestic work was made possible within the house because the hearth was there to provide heat and cooked food (ibid, 406). In reality, that productive work cannot happen without someone else taking care of the domestic load. A more balanced view of the actual work and activity undertaken in each household must recognise the extent of these less visible activities which enable some members of the household to undertake productive work. By way of contrast, Allison’s work on Roman artefact assemblages (2006, 2013) overtly prioritises gender by assigning both activities (combat, industrial, commercial, and domestic) and gender identities (male, female, child, and other) to every artefact. She argues that this deliberately inclusive gender agenda redirects attention away from traditional Roman soldier and male fort narrative to consciously include females, children, and other non-combatant male presences (Allison, 2013, 353–355). While my artefact categories are not gendered, the 16 categories were deliberately chosen to ground the function of the artefacts rather than make judgements about behaviours or productive capacities. This allows for some ambiguity in the dataset, many objects were multifunctional and have long biographies of use, and this analysis represents just one of many stages in the artefact’s life cycle. As Table 5.1 shows, there are 20 different materials here, and artefacts of iron, wood, and bone represent the most commonly recorded materials (Table 5.2). Given preservation conditions on-site, this is probably a fair reflection of the ubiquity of iron, wood, and bone in these levels. Across time, most materials are found in consistent numbers across the houses. Amber is much more common in Levels 5 (16 bead, ring and pendant roughouts, chips, and fragments) and 7 (10 fragments, including flakes, chips, and bead roughouts). In contrast, there are only two amber objects in Level 10, both of which are beads rather than craft debris. Conversely, there is one antler artefact from Level 5, a possible comb-case from FS23, but seven worked tines were recorded from the three Level 10 houses. The single jet fragment is also from Level 10. Notably, there are no silver artefacts or coins in these assemblages. Nor are there many ceramic finds, reflecting the aceramic nature of early medieval Ireland. Of the eight ceramic fragments across these houses, one is an intrusive late medieval sherd, one is Samian ware, and one is a shard of Anglo-Saxon ware. Artefact materials reveal much about the connections and links present in these levels. Beginning with the exotic, amber, soapstone, walrus tusk, whalebone, and silks were Scandinavian imports (O’Sullivan et al., 2021, 271–278). The glass fragments are also likely to represent international imports, although

Artefact Distribution Studies  107 Table 5.1  Artefacts grouped by category Category

Type 1

Craft debris Dress accessory Grooming accessory Horse equipment Jewellery Knife Lock/Key Nail Object Personal accessory Structural Textile Tool Vessel Weapon Weight

60 66 16 4 16 14 10 103 76 11 13 52 96 53 11 9 610

Type 2

Type 5

16 6 5 3 2 1 19 21 3 3 25 22 11 3 140

1 1

2

Total 76 72 21 4 19 16 11 122 97 14 16 77 119 65 14 9 752

we do not know the nature of these fragments. If these were fragments from high-status vessels, perhaps reserved for wine as Gaut found at Kaupang (Gaut, 2011, 255–257), it could indicate conspicuous consumption or feasting. Alternatively, these could be fragments hoarded as cullett for re-working (O’Sullivan et al., 2021, 231) or simply broken glass beads. Within the British Isles, jet and lignite may have come from Whitby or north Antrim, while the granite is found closer to home and was probably sourced from the Dublin or Wicklow mountains. These materials represent regional trade links, to which we can also add antler procurement which Ashby notes a skilled local to regional scale trade (Ashby, 2014). With new analytical techniques which can help identify origins of organic and inorganic materials, we look forward to adding much more detail to these networks. Assemblage Processes Before moving into the buildings to consider artefact findspots, we need to acknowledge the limitations of distribution studies such as these. These studies show where artefacts were excavated, which is not necessarily the same place as where items were either used or ultimately deposited (LaMotta and Schiffer, 1999, 21–22). Indeed, once an artefact enters the archaeological record, a number of processes come into play which can move that artefact away from its original point of deposition. These are collectively known as site formation processes (Schiffer, 1987): the conditions and events which create the particular

108  The Households Table 5.2  Artefacts grouped by materials Material

Total

Amber Antler Baked clay Bone Bronze Clay Glass Granite Hide Horn Iron Iron & copper alloy Jet Lead Leather Lignite Metal Pottery Silk Soapstone Stone Textile Tusk Whalebone Wood Wood & iron Total

28 8 1 114 31 5 13 1 3 2 239 1 1 17 58 2 2 8 2 1 31 36 1 2 144 1 752

archaeological assemblages of a site. LaMotta and Schiffer’s discussion of the formation of housefloor assemblages emphasises the complex nature of these processes (1999, 20). They consider both the accretion, or build-up, of material, via primary or secondary deposition, and the depletion of material. These depletion processes can include secondary refuse deposition, curation, scavenging, decay, and disturbance, at any point in time after the initial deposition of an artefact. These complex processes are often simplified as environmental-versus-cultural processes, intentional or unintentional, or habitation, abandonment, and post-abandonment processes (Deckers, 2022, 273). However, as Deckers continues, these simplified categories are not always useful for complex urban stratigraphical sequences where the integrity of a context can be less than ideal. Instead, he proposes that there are five different factors at play in such sites: fragmentation, deposition, removal, transportation, and unit

Artefact Distribution Studies  109 separation. Each of these factors can affect the integrity of the artefact’s recovery context. The idea of contextual integrity is widely understood (e.g. Skre, 2011, 14); however, at Ribe, the high-definition approach to recording allowed a much more nuanced understanding of how artefacts can move around within such complex stratigraphy. Beyond these site formation processes, there are three further factors which influence the composition of any excavated finds assemblage (Skre, 2011, 420). The first of these is the chemical composition of the burial environment: whether a site is dry or waterlogged, has aerobic or anaerobic burial conditions, or is acidic or not. These conditions impact upon what materials will, and will not, survive in each burial environment (ibid). As a result, hard, inorganic materials such as stone, ceramic, and iron are most commonly encountered at most sites. Preservation of organic materials requires anaerobic, usually waterlogged, burial conditions and is less commonly encountered. However, Dublin does contain such conditions and, along with York, Bergen, and Bordeaux, is part of what Carver terms a north European “organic crescent” (Carver, 2009, 11). During excavations at Fishamble Street, artefacts and waste from organic materials such as wood, leather, fabric, and bone were regularly recovered (Wallace, 2016, 17–20). More commonly preserved materials such as stone and iron are also well preserved here, as are ecofacts: seeds, plant material, wood, and insects (Coope, 1981; Geraghty, 1996; Reilly, forthcoming). These assemblages could be regarded as more complete than those from sites with poor organic preservation. Skre’s second and third factors are tied together: the contemporary recycling of materials and inherent guardianship of artefacts (Skre, 2011, 420). Objects can have undergone considerable recycling processes prior to their deposition in the ground. An excellent case in point is the recycling of insular ecclesiastical metalwork into secular ‘souvenirs’ and keepsakes by those who had participated in raids on Britain and Ireland (Heen-Pettersen and Murray, 2018; Wamers, 2011). In contrast, inherent guardianship argues that generally people will take better care of small, high-value objects (Skre, 2011, 420). This means that we may not find the most valuable or prized possessions in excavations of buildings – the household may have reserved such objects to pass on to the next generation (Gilchrist, 2012, 237–242). Alternatively, these valued possessions may be retained for use in burial contexts, as grave goods in furnished burials, or, perhaps, as ritual deposits (see Chapters 3 and 8). Finding Artefacts In Fishamble Street, these differential processes play out in different ways. First, it appears that artefacts were more commonly retrieved during occupation in some areas (e.g. planked floors or the central aisle space) than others (the complex stratigraphy of the side aisles). FS88 provides a good example of this; the complex stratigraphy of the western porch allowed 25 lost objects to become more easily incorporated into these layers of wattle, gravel, and stone paving. Conversely, it was easier to spot and retrieve objects from the solid plank flooring at the eastern door – here, only four artefacts were recovered

110  The Households during excavation. The same applies to the central aisles and hearths, which contained very few artefacts, supporting the suggestion that house floors were carefully maintained, cleaned, and replaced (Coope, 1981, 56; Geraghty, 1996, 69). This accords with the suggestion that the central aisle was a thoroughfare, allowing movement into and out of the house from the street or the yard. In FS90, there is a noticeable difference in the numbers of artefacts and stratigraphic layers in the west (38) versus the east of the house (6 artefacts). There were six different floor layers in the southwest corner and four in the northwest corner but only one layer in the southeast corner. This could suggest that the west end of the house was more frequently used than either the side aisles or the eastern corners. The same pattern continues in FS90A, although the presence of a planked porch floor here leads to an increase in the number of artefacts recovered from the east. There was a similar differentiation in Building A304 in Kaupang (Skre, 2011, 407–408) and in Ribe at both Sct Nicolajgade 8 and the Northern Emporium excavations (Croix, 2015, 12; Deckers, 2022, 294). In contrast to the corners, the formalised side aisle areas indicate a much higher degree of artefact loss. It is likely that some artefacts were unknowingly lost while their owner sat or lay here; perhaps a spindle whorl fell from a pouch or a bone pin from a cloak. Other artefacts (e.g. wood-work debris in amongst brushwood layers) may deliberately have been placed in the side aisles for disposal. There are no obvious concordances between the corners, their partition walls or style of flooring, and their artefact assemblages. Storage was an important function in some corners with padlock and key fragments, although what was being locked and guarded here is unknown. An unexpected finding is the presence of amber-working debris in one corner of FS46 and bone- and antler-working in another corner of FS90. The building orientations here suggest that this work was deliberately placed to take advantage of natural morning sunlight in FS46 while FS90’s northwest facing corner receives evening light. We may even go further by considering that the amber-working was deliberately placed at the front of the house. This is closer to the streetfront, potentially acting as an advertisement or shop window for the crafter. This suggests that rather than being dark and dusty storage areas, these corners were active productive spaces. More tools were found in the side aisles than the corners; perhaps they were more likely to be lost there if this was not their primary use area. Interestingly, wood-working may be an outlier here; all six wooden cores come from the side and central aisles rather than the corners. However, it does not seem that any of these houses functioned solely as workshops. Craft debris and tools (included under the very simplistic assumption that tools reflect some sort of productive activity) account for just one in four of every artefact in both the Type 1 and Type 2 houses (Figure 5.2). These are multifunctional spaces. Productive activities occurred in the same buildings as all other domestic activities, although there may have been a preference within the larger houses to have those activities occur in the corners of the houses. There are very few artefacts recorded from the foundation levels, indicating that these were relatively sterile. Those artefacts that do come from the

Artefact Distribution Studies  111

Figure 5.2 Artefact distribution studies of Type 2 houses: a) FS23, House plan from Wallace (1992b), Figure 84, © National Museum of Ireland b) FS84. House plan from Wallace (1992b), Figure 134, © National Museum of Ireland

foundation deposits are inconsequential – craft debris, nails, broken tools, and scraps of textiles. Some care seems to have been taken to ensure there were no usable objects in these levels. Certainly, there are no placed deposits in any of these houses. There are few instances of surviving roof deposits from Dublin, but one such deposit did come from FS90/A. This layer of sods contained about 170 wooden pegs or scoilb (Wallace, 1992b, 184–185) as well as a studheaded gilded bronze pin, a bone pin, a worked antler tine, and nails. These objects may have found their way into these sods at any point prior to or after the demolition of FS90/A.

112  The Households Finding the Household All these artefacts echo the expected male and female presences (Ljungkvist, 2008, 186). The weapons, craft debris, agricultural implements, belt buckles, weights, and tools echo typical male activities such as craftwork, trade, commerce, travel, and fighting. One gap reflected here is that there is limited evidence for recreation and socialisation in traditionally masculine forms (i.e. gaming) (Crawford, 1999, 141). At Novgorod, more than 60 gaming boards were recovered (Thompson, 1967, 101), but there is only one possible gaming piece from these houses. This absence is notable and raises questions about what forms of socialisation commonly occurred in Viking-Age towns and where those activities took place, if not in the home. Interestingly, the finds did include evidence of music and musicality as a form of socialisation; for example, a number of whistles were found. There are women present and actively producing textiles – sustaining the household – at all levels. This female presence is best demonstrated by the quantities and spread of textile tools: 50 out of 120 tools were textile tools and they came from every house. In York, the textile evidence suggested zones of production (Mainman and Rogers, 2004, 474), and we may see this in the differential nature of engagement with textiles in FS88 and FS46. Other artefacts implying a female presence include food preparation tools, dress accessories such as pins, beads, and pendants, and also keys (Dommasnes, 2008, 89). Children are harder to find archaeologically, but one way of identifying them is through the identification of recreational activity and toys (McAlister, 2013, 88–89). Ní Chonaill (2009, 112) notes that, by virtue of proximity, children would have been exposed to board games from a young age, although as we have seen, there are few gaming pieces here. There are three possible toys – the boat and spinning top from FS88 and a wooden core for a leather ball from the foundations of FS29 – all of which imply the presence of active and imaginative play in these houses. Interestingly, the spinning top comes from the room within Side Aisle 2 in FS88; this might be the first evidence for restricting children’s movements within the house. Unlike children, the elderly or extended family members do not have their own particular subset of material culture and cannot be traced through such ‘special’ artefacts. The ancillary Type 2 houses are often suggested as ‘granny flats’ or extra accommodation (Wallace, 1992b, 15). Given that a very similar range of activities seems to have occurred in Type 1 and Type 2 houses, this is a reasonable suggestion. It is also possible that enslaved people were present in these houses, but there is no associated material culture to indicate this. It is easy to use this simplistic male/female/child division to produce what seems like a clear-cut picture of the different roles and activities of each person. However, in real life, the lines were much more blurred than this. Whilst textile production is a female activity in the Viking world (Walton Rogers, 2020, 73), there is no real way to tell exactly who was involved in what stage of the process. This becomes a particularly relevant point in the 13th and 14th

Artefact Distribution Studies  113 centuries, when textile production passes from the hands of women into men and becomes a much larger-scale (and more profitable) industry (Crowfoot et al., 1992). At what point in time do men begin to take notice of the economic value of this (traditionally female) productive activity? Certainly, the scale of textile production in Scandinavia sees a significant increase after the introduction of the sailing ship and its consequent demand for woollen textiles (Jørgensen, 2012, 173). With other crafts like bone-, wood-, leather-, and amber-working, it is simply impossible to tell whether they were practiced by men or women, and this probably applies to most of the daily work of the household. Changes over Time

The numbers of artefacts recovered from the houses rise across the time span of the houses, from 44 artefacts in FS23 to 308 artefacts in FS88. This increase surely reflects the development of the settlement and the establishment of a more permanent and lasting connection within and around the town. The lower levels of artefact retrieval in the earlier levels may reflect a greater need or desire to look after objects more carefully. Simply put, fewer objects were accidentally lost as there were fewer objects to keep track of. However, as the town became more established, its links with its local and international hinterlands would have also become more secure and its wealth grew. The towns’ inhabitants may no longer have had to curate their possessions quite so carefully if they were able to replace them more easily. This change in attitude probably culminates in FS88, whose artefact assemblage is simply staggering in terms of both its size and contents. FS23, FS29, and FS84 are all from the same location in property 4 but from different stratigraphic levels (Figure 5.1). FS23 and FS84 are both Type 2 houses, and their assemblages indicate a normal range of activities for these buildings. FS29 is classed as a Type 1 house, based on its wall and roof construction, but neither its internal layout nor its artefact assemblage follows typical Type 1 patterns. The relatively low numbers of finds are concentrated in the east – some amber-working and a concentration of personal items, including dress accessories, jewellery, weapons, and weights. In contrast, the west of the house looks quite empty. We could read this as a structuralist dichotomy of front and back with activity areas at the front (east) of the house and spaces for sleeping and resting at the back (west) of the house (O’Sullivan, 2008, 252–253). These western spaces would be more personalised and private, explaining the higher occurrence (or, more accurately, level of loss) of personal items than in the active east end of the house. However, FS29’s location within the property is also unusual. Placed at the rear of property 4, it is, in fact, a direct replacement of FS23 from Level 6. Proportionately speaking, a much greater floor area is given over to side aisles than in most Type 1 houses. Even the numbers and types of artefact are more reminiscent of the assemblages in FS23 and

114  The Households FS84 than in FS88 and FS90. This suggests that, although FS29 structurally fits into the Type 1 category, it did not function as the primary domestic residence on the property and, instead, acted as a subsidiary Type 2 residence. FS46 and FS90/FS90A are also from the same property – property 9 – and are separated by three stratigraphic levels. This is conservatively estimated to be a period of 40–60 years, although Stout suggests this could be as short as 27 years (Stout, 2017, 166). This property displays a growing complexity and wealth from Level 6 to Level 10 (Table B9). FS46 contains 12 of the 16 artefact categories, mostly represented by one or two objects. Its successor, FS90/A, has all 16 categories and a corresponding increase in range of materials and numbers of artefacts. There is a notable increase in wood and iron artefacts and decrease in craft debris and textiles, indicating that this household underwent some significant change between Levels 7 and 10. The nuances of this change are unclear, but it does imply an increase in wealth which also corresponds with the increase in the construction quality across buildings at Level 10.

Household Activities

While we cannot use artefacts to directly identify individual members of the household, we can use them to look for patterns of activities and behaviours at a household level (Allison, 1999, 6). With this in mind, we can use the assemblages from each house to reconstruct something of their individual characters and households. In FS23 (Table B2 and Figure 5.3), a reasonably compact 10th-century house, we find an amber worker, who may have specialised in the production of beads and necklaces. There were five amber beads, seven amber fragments, one pendant roughout, and one ring fragment. A similar workshop was found in Kaupang, with beads, roughouts, and fragments (Skre, 2011, 402). FS23 also contained two bone whistles, reflecting entertainment and musical talent. The occupants of FS29 (Table B3) are a well-dressed household. Although there is no apparent craft or productive focus in the house, there were quite a variety of objects, including weapons, weights, some very fine fabrics, and a relatively high amount of jewellery and pins. This range might indicate some foreign or trading link because of the presence of weights, amber, and a whalebone artefact as well as weapons. Its location within the property and range of artefacts indicates that FS29 probably functioned as a residence rather than a workshop. FS46 also contained some amber-working, evidenced by the presence of ten pieces of amber craft debris (Figure 5.4 and Table B4). An unusual carved wooden boss was identified from the yard of this house; this was probably from a high cross (Stout, 2017, 166; Wallace, 2016, 420). There are a significant number of textiles inside FS46; 21 fragments were recovered from the house and a minimum of 39 noted from the yard. There are no textile-processing tools, so it is possible that FS46’s textile activity does not reflect either production or manufacture. It may indicate other activities such as trade (locally, regionally, or internationally), storage, or even clothing alterations. Though dating to the

Artefact Distribution Studies  115

Figure 5.3 Artefact distribution study of FS29, house plan from Wallace (1992b), Figure 89, © National Museum of Ireland.

116  The Households

Figure 5.4 Artefact distribution study of FS46, house plan from Wallace (1992b), Figure 89, © National Museum of Ireland.

Artefact Distribution Studies  117 13th century, records from both London and Paris indicate the presence of communities of “fripperers”, second-hand clothing dealers (Crowfoot et al., 1992, 3; Gilchrist, 2012, 237). Suggesting that second-hand clothes shops existed in late 10th-century Hiberno-Norse Dublin may be extreme, but the point to note is that, in urban situations, the re-distribution of surplus goods is an accepted part of life. The Type 5 structures are of different sizes, shapes, and construction and have few finds (Table B1). FS34 had no artefacts, FS5 contained one bone bodkin, whilst FS64 had a single pottery sherd. These are not indicative of any particular function for these buildings, and clearly artefact distribution studies are of little value when there are so few artefacts. (See also Allison, 2013, 311–312, for further discussion on these limitations.) The final three houses come from Level 10, dating to the early 11th century. FS84 (a Type 2 house, Figure 5.2 and Table B5) has a U-shaped internal side aisle wrapping around three sides of the building and a central hearth. Most of the finds came from this very large side aisle, and FS84 probably acted as a workshop for leather- and textile-working, with some additional bone-­working. This is unsurprising given that both crafts utilise the same animal sources as raw material. There are also several storage vessels and a rotary grinding stone, indicating food-related activities. These utensils would have been brought over and back to the main house as required. Exactly this point was made by a Viking-Age re-enactor who said that, because of limited space in the longhouses, “only the really important possessions were kept in the house” (Boyd, 2012, vol. 2, 76). Non-essential objects were kept elsewhere within the property and brought out as needed. FS88 (Figure 5.5 and Table B6) is often presented as a typical Type 1 house. It contained 308 artefacts, including several ornate objects such as a gold-inlaid wooden handled scoop, an ornate bronze pin, and a leather knife sheath decorated with a geometric pattern. FS88 also contained two toys, indicating the presence of children. One was a miniature toy boat (although its findspot was not identifiable to context), while the other was a wooden core which had been modified into a spinning top. The range of craft debris, tools, and objects in FS88 reveals a variety of productive activities, and the quantities of debris and tools suggest this is on a greater-than-household scale of production. Almost 50% of all the worked bone artefacts from these eight houses are found in FS88. There are bone combs, roughouts for bone pins, bodkins, and spindle whorls, and decorated bone plaques. The debris includes 14 groups of cut bones, metatarsals and offcuts, two pieces of antler, a walrus tusk with a ‘doodle’, and one whalebone Artefact. The wooden artefacts include wooden cores, while the finished textiles from this house include dyed and undyed woollen twills, tabby, silks, and leather (see catalogues in Wincott Heckett, 2003). There are more than 20 textile-processing tools, including spindle whorls, bodkins, weaving tablets, and a glass linen smoother as well as needles and punches. However, many of these tools are worked bone and may equally be related to the bone-working craft

118  The Households

Figure 5.5 Artefact distribution study of FS88, house plan from Wallace (1992b), Figure 138, © National Museum of Ireland.

practiced here. On the other hand, the presence of a linen smoother and wooden beetles would swing the argument back towards primary textile production. In total, there are three different productive activities in FS88: bone-working, wood-working, and textile production. All these crafts are traditionally strongly gendered: textile production equals women, while men worked wood and bone (Ljungkvist, 2008, 186). There was also differentiation in what activities were carried out on either side of the house. The northern aisle contains craft debris and tools, indicating

Artefact Distribution Studies  119 productive work, while the southern aisle contains greater numbers of jewellery, dress, and grooming accessories. Excavators identified a doorway between Side Aisle 2 and Corner 3, indicating that Side Aisle 2 may have formed a fully separate room (measuring 2.94 m2, about the same area as a modern king-size bed). The other artefacts from this room include several knives, whetstones, and a smaller amount of bone- and wood-working debris. These are relatively ‘clean’ activities which could be easily tidied away. Four of the wooden cores came from the northern aisle, implying that wood-working happened on the north side of the house. Corless’s initial impression of this debris was that it was of sufficient quantity and style to indicate a wood workshop (A. Corless, pers. comm.). FS90 (Figure 5.6 and Table B7), as originally constructed, had three aisles and defined eastern corners. It was remodelled by extending the western wall out into the property to enlarge the house and the western corners. The original aisle divisions were retained, while a drain and a new plank porch were added to the east. FS90 did not contain as many artefacts as its near neighbour, FS88. More than half of the artefacts came from the west of the house, suggesting that this end of the house was more frequently used than either the side aisles or the eastern corners. The stratigraphy at this side of the house is also more complex, supporting the suggestion of more varied and intense activity in the west of the house. The very small amounts of craft debris indicate that craftwork was limited inside this house. There were parts of at least two padlocks and one key in FS90. Although these were distributed around the house in three different corners, there were items of value in FS90 which required safe keeping. The remodelled house, FS90A (Figure 5.7 and Table B8), sees a slight increase in the quantity and types of vessels recovered and in the number of tools (although this is partly explained by recording several chain links individually). The assemblage indicates a wider range of activities but all on a small scale. A crucible fragment and a ‘glob’ of lead hint at metal-working and lead-casting somewhere nearby, honestones and whetstones reflect knife sharpening, while the needles, a weaver’s sword, and a spindle whorl denote sewing and weaving. There is still limited craft debris, but there is no change in the type of craft represented – bone-, antler-, and wood-working. The rare find of an iron plough-sock may suggest a connection with the countryside and rural life. Comparing the assemblages of FS90 and FS90A shows no very obvious changes in artefacts from one phase to the next, nor does there seem to be any particular focus of activity at either level. Instead, it appears that this was the place where the household lived rather than worked. This implies that whatever effect the remodelling had on the lives of the inhabitants, they did not affect the activities taking place inside the building. It is possible that there were accompanying buildings in the rear yard of the property which may have been the location for productive activities, but these lay outside the edge of the excavation.

120  The Households

Figure 5.6 Artefact distribution study of FS90, house plan from Wallace (1992b), Figure 140, © National Museum of Ireland.

Artefact Distribution Studies  121

Figure 5.7 Artefact distribution study of FS90A, house plan from Wallace (1992b), Figure 140, © National Museum of Ireland.

122  The Households A very simple assessment of quantity or quality of artefacts or construction style could be used to denote rich/poor, high-status/low-status buildings. Wallace notes that while it is “tempting” to equate yard or building size with greater household wealth in the 10th century, this is an oversimplification (Wallace, 2016, 50–52). Nor does he see any evidence for wealth based on coinage (notably absent in these buildings) or on quality or quantity of artefacts per house or property. Both FS88 and FS90/A demonstrate high-quality construction and very formal spatial divisions. Based on outward appearances, one would presume that both buildings were occupied by households of the same socioeconomic status. However, their artefact assemblages are quite different in size and content. Traditionally, FS88 is described as a wealthy household based on its artefacts and construction, but FS90/A has a similar quality of construction and a reasonably high number of artefacts. The key difference here appears to be productive activity. At least three crafts were practiced to a high standard in FS88, whereas FS90/A does not appear to have any craftwork. It may be that this mastery of craft work, and the resultant economic success, was what differentiated FS88 from its neighbours and conferred an extra degree of status upon that household. That this house contains such a range of crafts is interesting and raises the question of whether this is replicated across other houses or whether this gathering of crafts is unique to FS88. This brings to mind Ljungkvist’s (2008, 190–191) claim that access to and hosting of multiple crafts is an elite statement in Viking-Age Scandinavia as well as the concentration of craft activities as a driver of urbanism in Ribe (Croix et al., 2019, 358–359). As we will see in Chapter 6, FS88’s high degree of internal spatial differentiation may display Scandinavian ethnic influence. Perhaps this concentration of crafts in a single house is part of a similar display of prestige and mastery in Dublin? Ashby and Sindbaek’s volume (2020) explores the role of craft in urban networks, but their focus is on regional specialisms – combmakers, smiths, potters, and so on – rather than looking at the interplays between specialists in particular areas or, indeed, within individual houses. As FS88 is not representative of normal housing practises in Viking-Age Dublin, its artefact assemblage is unlikely to be truly representative of most houses either. Despite this, it is a fascinating assemblage. Multiple crafts – bone-, textile-, and wood-working – were practised here, and it contains far more artefacts than the other houses. As in FS29, the assemblage includes high-status objects: weapons, weights, jewellery, silken textiles, and a relatively large number of personal accessories, including highly decorated leather knife scabbards and a gilded scoop. The household themselves were well dressed, and their home displayed clear signs of comfort and wealth. FS90/A is a similarly well-built house, but it does not show any strong evidence of craft or productive activities. Nor does it contain the range of fine artefacts, although its construction displays a similar level of technical detail and ability. It seems that, like FS29, FS90/A was, quite simply, a residence where the occupants of this house worked outside the home, perhaps elsewhere

Artefact Distribution Studies  123 in the property or at another location altogether. The artefacts include a possible plough-sock, chain links, a bit from a horse’s bridle, a saw, and a scytheshaped iron piece. Is it possible that the household of FS90/A were farmers who went out from the town into the countryside to work? The carpentered box-bed frames could be compared with imdae – a native Irish tradition of built-in box-beds (Murray, 1979, 83-4) – and a share in a plough team is one of the requirements to qualify as an ocáire in early Irish law (Kelly, 1997, 468). Despite living in the middle of 11th-century Dublin, this household preserved their links with the countryside. It is even possible that the occupants of FS90/A not only worked in the countryside but were of native Irish origin. Visible and Invisible Work in the Household As has been emphasised many times, the house – the physical structure – simply provides the container within which, and around which, the household undertakes its routine tasks. Some activities, such as the noxious processes of tanning hides or the constraints of metal or ceramic production which require (dangerous) heat and plentiful water, were deliberately removed from the house (Stillman et al., 2003, 215; Wallace, 2005, 833). This also had the advantage of removing less pleasant by-products (and smells) from residential areas. This is the sort of work which occurred outside at Site D at Temple Bar West. Within the house, the artefacts provide clues to many such activities; for example, axes, binding strips, and hinges could indicate repairs to doors or maintenance work to buildings. Horse equipment and boat nails evidence travel, to quite some distances, beyond the local hinterlands. Locks and keys show that security was a concern, even if the objects which were being carefully locked away may have varied considerably from house to house. Whistles imply music and entertainment, perhaps for recreation or perhaps at a professional level. The remainder of the artefacts, however, illustrate many other tasks which occurred in and around the home. The Visible Work of Making Things

First of all is the work of making – productive activity. At Coppergate, Mainman and Rogers (2004, 464) identify nine productive activities: iron-, non-­ferrous metal-, wood-, leather-, bone/antler-, amber-, glass-, jet-, and textile-working. These Fishamble Street houses have insufficient evidence for jet-, glass-, iron-, or non-ferrous metal-working. These latter two crafts involve high temperatures and were probably conducted in safer open-air working spaces (Wallace, 2005, 833). This leaves five crafts present here: wood-, leather-, bone/ antler-, amber-, and textile-working (Table 5.3). FS90/A does not contain any strong evidence for craft work or productive activities, and while FS29 contains some amber debris, the amounts present are really quite low. This may imply that the person who occupied this house ‘dabbled’ in amber-­working rather than engaging in it as a full-time craft. Amber-working is found only in

124  The Households Table 5.3  Types of activities as suggested by the artefacts Activity

Artefacts

Commerce Construction Cooking Dressing Military Personal grooming Recreation Repair Storage Textile production Travel

Weights; imported objects/materials Nails; chains; hoops; tools Vessels; pots; utensils Jewellery; dress accessories; textiles; shoes Weapons; horse equipment Combs Whistles; toys Nails Vessels; chests; buckets Loom weights; spindle whorls; needles; textiles Horse equipment; Ships nails

the early houses, FS23 and perhaps FS29. Other buildings contemporary to FS29 (e.g. FS20) also reveal evidence for intensive amber-working (Wallace, 1985, 136), which may indicate that amber-working was concentrated in particular areas in the mid-10th century. Leather-working is also restricted to a single household – FS84 – where it is also associated with bone-working. The main evidence for bone- and wood-working comes from FS88, an early 11th-century house, which also features textile-working. There are textile tools or fragments in every one of these houses, again emphasising the core role of textile production here. The wider picture here is one where productive activity takes precedence over agricultural activity, as would be expected in urban contexts. These were no longer self-sufficient households; growing food was not a major activity. Wallace (2016, 360) suggests that household production at Fishamble Street was largely for household use rather than evidence for a re-distributive level of craft production. I would contend that the number of crafts practiced and quantities of debris in these houses signal that there was more than household level production going on. Despite the relatively small amount of crafts, this could still equate to significant quantities of work. Earlier, Wallace (2005, 831–834) reflected on the variety of crafts necessary in an urban situation and illustrated the linkages between the different craftsmen who all relied on the same raw materials – metal ores, wood, bone, and clay. This inter-connection is emphasised at Ribe in relation to the establishment of urban modes of production as compared with smaller-scale rural productive capacity (Croix et al., 2019, 347). This variety in productive activity from house to house and level to level emphasises the collaborative nature and potential scale of these urban modes of production. Each Type 1 house also contains multiple weights, indicating trade and exchange. This is also not unexpected. Viking Dublin, and indeed the Viking world, operated a dual silver economy incorporating both bullion and coin

Artefact Distribution Studies  125 use (Kershaw and Williams, 2018; Purcell and Sheehan, 2013; Woods, 2013). However, despite the presence of weights, there are no silver artefacts (coin, ingots, or hacksilver) in any of these houses. Indeed, silver finds are notable by their scarcity across Fishamble Street, and only 12 out of 127 buildings were directly associated with coins (Wallace, 2016, 346). However, there are sufficient quantities of coins across the road at Christchurch Place and High Street for Woods to suggest a direct correlation between craft production and coin use there (Woods, 2013, 58–61). Trade and exchange were active concerns in multiple houses across time. However, we need to more closely examine whether, in each house, that trade was meeting the household’s immediate needs or allowing the household to engage in trade at a larger scale than their immediate needs. The Invisible Work of Caring

There is another level of activity and work which occurs in the background of the house and is less well appreciated. These are “the basic tasks … that regulate and stabilize social life” (Gonzáles-Marcén et al., 2008, 3) such as care-­ giving, food preparation, cooking, textile production, medical care, hygiene, and child-rearing. These “maintenance activities” are highly specialized activities which must be learned and passed on to the next generations to structure social dynamics (Dommasnes and Montón-Subías, 2012, 379). These are not isolated activities; they require close contact within established social networks in order to pass on this knowledge. Indeed, one could define maintenance activities as creating “an identity dominated by relationships to the others” (Gonzáles-Marcén and Montón-Subías, 2009, 73). These tasks occur in every household, whether the household is based around ties of kinship or blood or some other organising principle. Most importantly, though, these must be carried out on a regular basis to perpetuate the existence of that household. The theory establishes the practitioners of maintenance activities as key performers within the household. Maintenance activities are not dramatic or startling activities, but their repetition creates the basic foundation upon which households rest, and without the perpetual re-enactment of maintenance activities, society will not survive (Gonzáles-Marcén et al., 2008, 8). The importance of maintenance activities has traditionally been downplayed in historical and archaeological interpretations (Hernando, 2008, 9–14), leading to a recent surge in interest in these activities as a means of reclaiming female roles, powers, and involvement within the household (Dommasnes and Montón-Subías, 2012, 379). Maintenance activities are generally acknowledged as female tasks and incorporated into discussions of women’s work, explicitly, as in Montón-Subías and Sánchez-Romero’s (2008) volume or implicitly in Barile and Brandon’s (2004) work. However, the transition from a rural society to an urban society, such as happened here during Ireland’s Viking Age, provides an opportunity to tease out some of the intricacies of shifting social practices during a period of transition. Most productive work took place within the house and its

126  The Households immediate environs, traditionally the woman’s world. Women and men may have experienced this transition quite differently as men’s work practices probably shifted more substantially during this transition. Instead of leaving the house to work in the fields, a significant proportion of men may have remained at home during the working day. This would have impacted the household organisation. If men were physically present within the household spaces for more time, their participation in household work practices and household responsibilities could also shift. One example of how this shift could alter the balance consists of the practicalities of taking on craftwork and associated apprentices within the house – the formerly female-dominated sphere. The shift to crafting would have already affected the economic basis of the household. The addition of an apprentice also impacts the household; this apprentice must be housed, fed, and clothed as well as educated. The balance of working space within and around the house must also shift as space must be found for the apprentice to sleep, work, and keep their own possessions. Remember that space is already limited for the household, as it is constrained by the existing urban property boundaries. Thus, this productive work – the creation of objects for trade and exchange – is enabled by the whole household and, particularly, supported by the maintenance activities. All these labours – the visible and invisible works– are intertwined. Textile Activities

The idea of Viking-Age maintenance activities was first explored by Dommasnes when considering the cosmological significance of textile production (Dommasnes, 2008). Textile production – the manufacture of threads, fabric, and clothing – is a female activity in the Viking world. It is highly visible archaeologically with large assemblages of textiles from Dublin, York, and Greenland and of tools from furnished burials and virtually every settlement across Scandinavia, the North Atlantic, Britain, and Ireland (Andersson, 2007, 17; Mortenson, 1997, 204; Oye, 2022, 59). Spindle whorls and loom weights are most commonly encountered (Andersson, 2007, 20), but other tools such as shears, scissors, needles and needlecases, and weaving swords attest to the many different stages of textile production (Walton Rogers, 1997, 1731). Many farm sites preserve specialised weaving workshops, dyngja, often interpreted as female domains and a safe place to gossip, matchmake, and enjoy other ‘female’ pursuits (Andersson, 2007, 24; Milek, 2006, 236–240). Textile production is also linked to ritual and cult belief in the Viking Age (Price, 2019, 132) with suggestions that some weaving swords from graves may have been seiðr – magic staffs. Dommasnes (2008, 95) suggests that textile production is a critical maintenance activity in Viking-Age Scandinavia, linking the weaving cycle to images of fertility and reproduction. In Anglo-Saxon England, Sofield (2017) and Hamerow (2006) both emphasise a female link to textile production with the ritual deposits of loomweights within sunken-floored buildings. McAllister (2008, 121) discusses textile

Artefact Distribution Studies  127 production in early medieval Ireland, concluding that it was similarly important to the household economy. Proudfoot (1961, 104) suggested that there were also female buildings within the early medieval rath in Ireland, similar to dyngjas, but McAllister (2008, 121) believes that native Irish textile activities actually occurred within the main house. Certainly, based on this survey of artefacts, textile production appears to have taken place occasionally in ancillary buildings (as in FS84) but was more likely to have occurred within the main house (such as FS46 and FS88). This places textile-working at the very centre of the household rather than in segregated buildings. This may be for reasons of practicality: space is limited, and if the ancillary buildings were being used for other activities, there may have been no other place to undertake textile production. Looms are large pieces of furniture. In addition, the hearth would provide additional lighting to allow some work to continue even as natural light fades. An alternative reading could be much more interesting: textile production was returned to the heart of the household because of its growing economic importance and as a display of status and wealth. The textile trade was an emerging industry, one which could generate a large income thanks to growing demand. Thus, by moving this particular industry to the centre of the household, its economic value as a commodity was becoming recognised. We could even suggest that this was due to the changing gender roles within the household. As farming became less important within the urban context, men would have needed to find other activities to fill their time and, importantly, create a source of income. As men became more physically present within the household, they may have become more aware of the economic potential of such formerly ‘domestic’ and ‘female’ trades. Bringing the textile production back to within the main house may have been a first step in taking the textile industry from female to male control. Food Production

The act of feeding the household is another traditionally female task, as are the related activities of acquiring, storing, and preparing food. Food production was an especially significant maintenance activity in early medieval Ireland, based on the closing deposits of quernstones on house floors (see Chapter 3). In Scandinavia, Brink (2008) ties generosity with food and hospitality to social status. Runestones often comment on the hospitality of the celebrated person, because, as Brink says: “if you were a solid, frequent and generous provider of food, this was worth praising” (ibid, 27). At its most extreme, “the meal became a sacrosanct occasion, often conducted with some ritual, with invocations to gods” (ibid, 22). Indeed, halls like that at Hofstaðir in Iceland seem to have been used for just such ‘sacrosanct occasions’ (Lucas, 2009, 404–408), and it is likely that other major centres like Tissø in Denmark also included feasting as part of their cultic element (Jørgensen, 2010, 276). The especially large hearths serve as vivid reminders of how many people a household could afford to feed and as a mark of status.

128  The Households Work dedicated to early urban foodways in Ireland is limited; there is more recent work on later medieval foodways (e.g. Flavin et al., 2021; Lyons, 2015). Much of the environmental data from these excavations is unpublished (Boyd and Stone, 2021) or reports only on selected samples or individual sites (Davis, In prep). We know that there was some primary butchery carried out in the town (McCormick and Murray, 2007, 37–78; Reilly, forthcoming, 124–126; Soderberg, 2022), there was some cultivation of edible and useful plants and herbs (Geraghty, 1996, 66), and small domestic animals such as pigs and chickens were present (Wallace, 2016, 215–20). The artefacts indicate various stages of food preparation, such as quernstones, bowls, knives, and cooking implements. The act of preparing food could have happened inside or outside, although particularly messy jobs like butchery were outdoor activities (Reilly, forthcoming). The internal hearth was the main focus for cooking; there is no evidence for external cooking places associated with Type 1 houses at Fishamble Street, Temple Bar West, Peter Street, or any other site. Small postholes around the edge of the hearth indicate the use of cooking cranes or stands, while kerbs could be used to section off parts of the hearth for different purposes (e.g. Figure 4.4). During cooking, food and food waste were often stored in small hollows scooped out of the floor around the hearth (Geraghty, 1996, 69), but permanent food storage pits have not been identified. Some foodstuffs may have been kept within chests, bags, and barrels, while other foods would have been hung from the ceiling. Common sense would dictate that most foods were stored within the main house, if only to protect them from theft (whether by animals or people), but some foods may have been kept in storage sheds. Perhaps those Type 5 buildings with floors and doors were such food stores. Re-enactors living in reconstructed houses commented on the problems of safely and hygienically storing food without Tupperware boxes (Boyd, 2012, vol. 2, 76), but most perishable foods would have been consumed quickly or preserved for longer-term storage. This introduces the idea of seasonality, the availability of foodstuffs, and storage and preserving technology to the workloads within the household. Famine was a constant threat in the countryside (Brink, 2008, 12; Ó Corráin, 2005, 578) and would have become more so in the town as people were no longer self-sufficient. Food poverty and food deserts are not just a contemporary phenomenon, and archaeology has a key role to play in understanding food security as an ongoing concern (Logan et al., 2019). The town was reliant on external supplies of beef, pork, lamb or mutton, milk, and other dairy products as well as cereal crops. Whilst the nature of the relationship between town and hinterland is unclear, there is no question over the existence of such a relationship (Bradley, 1988, 2009; Griffiths, 2011; Potterton and Murphy, 2010). Food production and food security would have become a more real and pressing issue in the towns, perhaps leading to a growth in the social importance of food-related maintenance activities.

Artefact Distribution Studies  129 House Repairs

A third activity I want to consider here is one which is not traditionally included as a maintenance activity: the field of house repairs and structural maintenance. This was a relatively common occurrence in these houses, as we discussed in Chapter 4. Such repairs ranged from minor jobs, such as replacement of floors or repairs to thatch, to major reconstructions of doorways or the addition of auxiliary roof supports. As the house is the location in which the households exist, we can consider the act of repairing that house, in order to keep it (and its household) standing, as a maintenance activity. This post-and-wattle architecture is somewhere in between a vernacular and a specialist architecture. Vernacular architecture is a system of construction whereby everyone has some knowledge and ability to build these structures. There are no architects or designers here. Wallace suspects that there was some degree of specialism certainly by the 12th century at which point “specialist carpenter-builders” (Wallace, 1992a, 46–47) were involved in fulltime wood-working (to judge by the scale of the town and the nature of the surviving buildings). They probably also controlled the supply of wood and other raw materials to the construction industry, certainly by the time of the Anglo-Norman arrival in 1170 (O’Sullivan, 1998, 121; Potterton and Murphy, 2010, 357–382). Most occupiers of the houses would, of necessity, have to be familiar with basic repairs to wattle work, doorways, and roof supports because of the frequency with which repairs became necessary. This establishes a communal importance and attachment to house-building but a household commitment to house repairs. Indeed, up to relatively recent times, house-building was a communal activity in rural Ireland (O’Reilly, 2011, 201). Larger-scale repairs or alterations, moving or bracing structural walls, or adding carpentered timber floors or porches would probably have necessitated a visit from the relevant experts. Smaller jobs would have been carried out in-house as the most economical and practical means of dealing with the relatively frequent repair jobs – minor wall repairs, adding supporting wedges or padstones to the base of roof supports, or replacing internal post-and-wattle walls. Whilst not requiring expertise, these minor repairs were still skilled tasks which needed to be done correctly in order to stabilise and prolong the life of the house. These skills would have been passed on from one generation to the next within the household, by means of direct teaching and observation. The question of who carried out this work is up for some discussion. If men are physically present in the home, they can take on a role in maintaining the household, both physically (through the repairs to the house) and conceptually (through passing on these skills to younger members of the household). Murray suggested that the continuation of tradition is also likely to have been strongest where the grandparents lived with the family, which was probably often the case (Murray, 1983, 85). Inherent here are Murray’s assumptions that these were male tasks and skills and that the boys learned from their

130  The Households fathers and grandfathers. This reflects the socialisation of children through observations and learned behaviours in the early medieval world (O’Sullivan et al., 2017, 77), in other words, through a maintenance activity. Very recently, Howard Clarke has suggested that some house-building, perhaps the weaving of wattle walls, may have been carried out by women and girls (Clarke and Johnson, forthcoming). It is unclear to me how we could ever differentiate between male and female work practices here in the archaeological record. ­Perhaps if finger impressions were preserved in daub, we could hazard an educated guess as to whether those fingers belonged to larger (male?) or smaller (female or young male?) or very small (children?). However, as we have no evidence for daub, this is somewhat of a moot question. Conclusion The artefact assemblages of these houses reflect the practices, values, and experiences of this small selection of households on Viking-Age Fishamble Street. Each artefact has a story to tell, of the presence of musicianship and games in these houses, the company of children and adults, and the work of feeding, caring, making, and fixing. The details here are fascinating, but it is the bigger picture which is of greater value. These artefacts tell us of daily and regular working practices and habits. The initial focus is on the visible work, the productive activities of crafting and making, but this is only one part of the story. In order to enable such productive work to take place, a whole gamut of behind-the-scenes work goes on. These are the ‘maintenance activities’, the work of cooking, caring, cleaning, and ensuring the well-being of every household member that are typically undertaken by women. It is very obvious that practices such as transforming grains, vegetables, and meat into nutritious meals, producing cloth and finished clothing from wool or flax, and caring for the young, the old, the sick, and the aged are indeed essential activities. Many of these activities would fall under what we term today ‘invisible labour’ and the ‘mental load’. When we prioritise the more visible work of making and exchanging things in our investigations of work practices in the Viking world, we side-line the contribution which these invisible activities make. These are, after all, the essential tasks to sustain everyday life. Their enactment is what permits other members of the household to alter their productive focus from producing food to producing other objects and services which would enable them to participate in these new urban economies.

6

Access Analysis Moving Around the House

Introduction A household archaeology approach makes an explicit connection between the household and the built (and unbuilt) spaces which they occupy, and we return to those physical space now. These particular buildings represent a vernacular architecture, one in which “everyone in the society knows the building types and even how to build them” (Rapoport, 1969, 4). The owner of a building is a participant in its design and construction rather than a passive recipient of an imposed plan. Vernacular architecture is a collaboration between the builder and the household; thus, it should more closely reflect the accepted ‘mores’ and ‘norms’ of society (O’Reilly, 2011; Oliver, 1997). Archaeologists approach the building style of vernacular architectures with an eye to their “potential as a culture informant” (Heath, 2003, 49). If we can ‘read’ the layout of these buildings, their architectural choices and habits, we can ‘read’ something of the society which constructed them. One method of reading these spaces is to apply access analysis or space syntax analysis to explore the excavated floor plans. This is a method of architectural analyses which developed during the 1970s and 1980s (Yamu et al., 2021, 1. Introduction). At its most basic, access analysis concerns itself with the relationships between architecture, space and society. It is based on the belief that the environment and architecture which surround daily life can be deliberately manipulated to provoke certain responses in human behaviour (Hillier and Hanson, 1984, 1–25). Reading Movements Access analysis studies the routes of movement between and around buildings as evidenced by the placement of doorways, boundaries, and barriers to control and negotiate spaces (Fairclough, 1992, 348–350). It explores how inhabitants and visitors move through spaces and how those spaces are controlled and manipulated. These controls ensure socially acceptable behaviours, and exposing those controls allows us to reflect on the relationships between inside and outside, public and private, visitor and inhabitant, as defined through DOI: 10.4324/9781003039006-8

132  The Households boundaries (Hillier and Hanson, 1984, 146–147). When applied to individual buildings or entire settlements, access analysis highlights repeated associations between spatial units and activities. We can use these patterns to question how that household or community utilised their architecture to structure the interactions between inhabitants and visitors. Hillier and Hanson define the most basic architectural form as the ‘elementary building’. This is, very simply, a structure which divides the space within it from the space without it (Hillier and Hanson, 1984, 176). This elementary building is the root of all other architectural forms. It is associated with at least one inhabitant, a person who has privileged access to and control of that enclosed space. In contrast, those who are not associated with the elementary buildings – ‘strangers’ – do not have control over that space. Hanson associates the elementary building with the social knowledge which is defined by that space and its associations with the inhabitant (Hanson, 2003, 5–8). If the elementary building has one doorway (Figure 6.1a), it is a closed cell structure – effectively a dead-end – whereas two doorways create an open cell (Figure 6.1b) (Hanson, 2003, 5–6). Access analysis takes the perspective of the stranger, an outside observer known as the ‘carrier’. Each space within the building is assessed in relation to all other spatial units in the building. The type of units varies depending on the context, whether it is a house or settlement, an individual, or communal building. Usually, these include rooms and functional zones, whether they are for

Figure 6.1 The principles of access analysis: a) represents the closed cell, with one entry point and access route. Redrawn from Hanson (2003), Figure 1.2. b) represents the open cell, demonstrating how the paired access routes act as a thoroughfare, allowing the carrier to enter the cell via two different access routes. Redrawn from Hanson (2003), Figure 1.2. c) a dendritic or branching route; see how movement from unit 2 to unit 3 must be negotiated through unit 1. Image by author. d) a ringy route of movement, where it is possible to move around the outside space and enter unit 2 without going through unit 1. Image by author.

Access Analysis  133 living, working, sleeping, cooking, bathing, or other defined purposes. ‘Transitional’ spaces include passageways, corridors, doorways, or stairs. These units act as ‘hubs’ within a building, allowing access between spaces. They can take the form of doorways, passages, or stairs as well as lobbies or halls. Their key characteristic is that they allow multidirectional movements forwards, backwards, and around built spaces. The spatial units are mapped out from the carrier’s external viewpoint outside the building. This is plotted on a movement map known as a gamma map or space syntax analysis (Hillier and Hanson, 1984, 147). The gamma map is a series of interconnected lines and symbols relating the depth and means of access of each unit to the next from the external viewpoint of the carrier. Access analysis concerns itself with actual movement routes between these units rather than physical proximity of units (Price, 1994, 55). Therefore, every spatial unit which is two moves away from the carrier is placed two levels away from the carrier on the gamma analysis, regardless of whether they are physically next door to that space or on the other side of the building. This is the process of justification of access analysis. In reading these justified analyses, there are two characteristics to bear in mind: symmetry and asymmetry and distributedness and non-distributedness (Hillier and Hanson, 1984, 147–149). Symmetry and asymmetry refer to the degrees of connectedness or separation between individual spatial units. Symmetrical spaces have direct access to each other (symmetrical), but asymmetrical spaces are connected through other units. Distributedness or non-distributedness refers to the permeability of units: whether they can be accessed via more than one routeway. A pattern that moves from the carrier in a regular, branching pattern (Figure 6.1c) is a dendritic or tree-like pattern (Hillier and Hanson, 1984, 132), whereas a ‘ringy’ pattern (Figure 6.1d) has multiple access routes around the spaces (Richardson, 2003, 374). Building, or indeed settlement patterns, can combine both of these characteristics to produce spaces which are symmetrical and distributed, asymmetrical and distributed, symmetrical and non-distributed, asymmetrical and non-distributed. However, there are limitations to the applicability of access analysis. The first is that only buildings with a complete ground plan, including all possible access routes as well as knowledge of upper stories (if any were present), are suitable for analysis (Cutting, 2003, 18; Paliou, 2014a, 7). It also helps to have some idea of the function of rooms (Price, 1995, 114). This helps to contextualise each spatial unit as well as the overall buildings, although we must take care in constructing such hypotheses (Cutting, 2006, 141–142). Finally, the emphasis on visual properties of the structure diminishes the role of other senses, sensory inputs, and environmental perceptions in architectural forms (Paliou, 2014a, 7–9). This is one of Allison’s key criticisms of access analysis: that it is a reductionist interrogation of two-dimensional space which can ignore the presence of windows or other visual interruptions across what was originally three-dimensional space (Allison, 1999, 4). In this, Allison is correct, but the value of access analysis lies in its role as a ‘tool to think with’. Access analysis

134  The Households provides an alternative way of thinking about and conceptualising space, buildings, and relationships. Despite these limitations, access analysis provides a means to probe built spaces to prompt new insights into how people used their built spaces. Archaeologists quickly recognised the potential of access analysis, modifying its parameters to suit prehistoric and historic architecture such as religious complexes (Gilchrist, 1988), castles (Fairclough, 1992), and villages (Foster, 1989a, b). Access analysis looks only at the connections between different rooms or spaces, but modified access analyses include extra information such as visual access between spaces (Paliou, 2014b), room function (Mathieu, 1999), or decorative and ornamental finishes in a space (Richardson, 2003). Archaeological interpretations tend to fall into one of two categories (Foster, 1989a, 42–44). The first considers the microscale of individual houses and the locales of activities within one building. We look for particular patterns of movement and activities specific to a single house and its household. The second interpretation considers the macroscale of groups of buildings and looks to see whether there are wider underlying spatial patterns which may be indicative of cultural genotypes or expressions of cultural identities. Movements in Viking-Age Buildings Some forty years on from the first applications of access analysis in archaeological contexts, new and more refined space syntax analyses continue to emerge, largely in the realms of doctoral and postgraduate research theses (Thaler, 2005, 324). In the past ten years, these analyses have included computer-aided modelling of depth-maps, view sheds, GIS (geographic information systems), and 3D modelling reflecting wider trends in archaeology. These digital analyses can result in increasingly complex calculations as exemplified by the contributors to the volume by Paliou et al. (2014, 4). Over the years, there have been several access analyses of Viking-Age houses in Scandinavia and the North Atlantic. One which utilises this more contemporary computer-aided modelling is Organista’s comparison of Borg, Aggersborg, and Hofstaðir – three exceptional Viking-Age longhouses (Organista, 2015). Using digital models of depth values, viewsheds, and agent analyses, Organista explores these longhouses as ‘interactive’ and ‘performative’ spaces. In his models, the entrance and central aisle funnels foot traffic into and around the household’s spaces – the central room. This turns the longhouse into a performative venue, a stage where the household can ‘perform’ their daily life or indeed enact special activities in a performance put on for visitors to the house (ibid, 59). More traditional access analyses are found in the work of Price (1994, 1995), Milek (2006), Beck (2010, 2014), and Eriksen (2019). Each of these takes a different investigative approach, reflecting the flexibility of access analysis, but they come to similar conclusions. Price proposed that there was “a kind of mental template regulating the requirements for a house” (Price, 1995,

Access Analysis  135 123–124), based on similarities in the gamma analyses of Icelandic Viking-Age houses (Figure 6.2c). He further suggested that early Viking-Age houses from the Danelaw also conformed to this template but that later houses did not (Price, 1994, 62–64). Milek’s (2006, 140–146) analysis maps additional details in the spaces, including room functions, access types, vestibules, and fixed internal furniture (stone boxes, benches, and barrel pits) as well as integrating a colour key. Milek showed that the public spaces – Organista’s central rooms – displayed normative layouts and elaborate features such as wainscotting in order to make an impression on visitors to the house. In contrast, annexes were placed deep within the house, removing them from general access and providing the household with private, familial spaces (Figure 6.2a, ibid, 144–155). Beck (2010, 2014) and Eriksen (2019) both focus on the role of the doorway in controlling movements. Focussing on houses in Denmark and Sweden, Beck showed how the doorway was accentuated by the placement of formalised entry routes and pathways to increase the control over access to the hall (Beck, 2014, 135). This enhancement of ‘affect’ was closely connected to the internal architecture of the house and the explicit creation of public and private spaces within the house (Beck, 2010, 117). Eriksen’s more technical analysis discusses symmetry and asymmetry and depth values – the number of steps required to move from one space to another – of different rooms within the longhouse (Figure 6.2b, Eriksen, 2019, 88–101). Unfortunately, all these houses have lessthan-ideal preservation, so there are fewer internal details to incorporate into

Figure 6.2 Justified gamma analyses of Scandinavian longhouses. a) Hofstadir, Iceland. Redrawn from Milek (2006), Figure 3.18. b) Borg 1:1a, Norway. Here the carrier can move in three different directions into the house. Redrawn from Eriksen (2019), Figure 4.12. c) Skallakot, Iceland. Redrawn from Price (1994), Figure 6.

136  The Households the analysis, a problem also noted by Milek (2006, 25). In addition, these houses date to before 1100 AD, a point in time at which longhouses appear to have been smaller and less complex in their organisation than their later parallels (Milek, 2006, 152). A key point to bear in mind is Eriksen’s interpretation of longhouse doorways as creating a ‘bent-axis approach’, a term borrowed from Mesopotamian ziggurats (Eriksen, 2019, 91). This, as we will see, is specific to these longhouses. Access analyses fall into one of two camps: a more qualitative approach exemplified by Cutting’s (2006) ‘toolbox’ analogy or a more quantitative one, such as computer-aided modelling. Thaler (2005, 324–326) suggests that this either/or approach limits the potential of access analysis in archaeology. ­Ostwald (2011, 445) makes a similar distinction between the process of mapping space in a topological model – the quantitative work – and the theory of interpreting those models. In this light, we should view Organista and Eriksen’s work as steps forward into more integrated analyses while Price and Milek demonstrate the value of access analysis as a ‘tool to think with’ when faced with simple, or more complex, architectural forms. The point to remember here, however, is that each of these different analyses points to clear divides between public and private spaces and, consequently, inhabitants and visitors in the Viking world. Reading Ireland’s Viking-Age Buildings As we have seen, access analysis is a somewhat fashionable analysis to apply to Viking-Age longhouses. However, while these longhouses have complete floor plans and doorways, they rarely preserve the depth of detail that we find in Ireland’s urban houses. A pilot study of a single building level at Fishamble Street showed that the level of preservation demonstrated much potential for access analysis (Boyd, 2009). In the rest of this chapter, we explore how access analysis can be used to ‘read’ the houses of Viking-Age Ireland across time and towns. With the exception of Cork where no complete ground plans of ­Viking-Age houses have been recovered, these houses are from a range of sites dating from the 9th to the 12th century in Dublin and Waterford. At first glance, the ground plans show relatively simple structures with few internal spaces (e.g. Building BT in Figure 6.3), but the power of access analysis lies, as Cutting suggests, in its flexibility as “a tool to think with” rather than as a rigid set of rules (Cutting, 2003, 16). Given the quality of preservation of internal features in these houses, it was possible to include micro-boundaries in the gamma analysis, noting changes in type or height of flooring, internal partitions, thresholds, and doorways. These more subtle indicators of change can be harder to trace in the archaeological record but were clearly preserved in these houses. The carrier is placed at the street end of the house, at the juncture between the street and the house. Each spatial unit identified and mapped out in a gamma analysis from the carrier’s perspective.

Access Analysis  137

Figure 6.3 Justified gamma analyses of late 9th- to early 10th-century Type 1 houses from Temple Bar West, Dublin. Image by author.

138  The Households Controlling Movements

We begin by looking at the similarities between all the Type 1 houses (Figures 6.3–6.5). The first feature which the carrier encounters is the doorway which is always, in a Type 1 house, paired with an opposing number. These opposed doorways translate into a direct path of movement through the building.

Figure 6.4 Justified gamma analyses of late 10th- to mid-11th-century Type 1 houses. Image by author.

Access Analysis  139

Figure 6.5  Justified gamma analyses of late 11th- to 12th-century Type 1 houses. Image by author.

This implies that the building, in and of itself, is an open cell and a transitional space, giving access to the spaces beyond it. The doors are considered here as being open to all but would originally have been closed or locked to regulate access to the houses. This could have varied depending on time of day or the daily weather conditions. The rear doors may not have been open or closed at the same time as the front door. The construction and materiality of the doors themselves may also have had an impact on the visual perspective of the carrier. A closed plank door would present a very different façade than an open curtain or screen. Doorway furniture such as locking mechanisms and sliding bolts as well as door rings, carvings, and engravings could enhance the affective power and resonance of the door to the Viking house (Eriksen, 2019, 35–36, 181–187). We also know that doorway elements were regularly replaced, salvaged, and reused (Scully, 1997, 37; Wallace, 1992b, 29). It is unclear whether the excavated doorways preserved their original composition of jambs and thresholds, let alone the doors themselves. Indeed, elements such as thresholds or jambs may have been deliberately reused to add to the affect of the doorway. This may have been the case in FS9, where a carved ships prow was reused as a doorway threshold (Lang, 1988, 9, 53). The biggest contrast between Scandinavian and North Atlantic Viking-Age houses is that these Irish houses do not display the same ‘bent axis’ orientation. In these traditional longhouses, the entrance is in the side wall, perpendicular to the living spaces. The carrier must make a conscious choice to turn left or right after stepping through the threshold in order to encounter the household

140  The Households and their living spaces. This creates dramatic tension in these apparently simple spaces, culminating in a ‘gradual reveal’ of the longhouse as the carrier negotiates through these (much larger) spaces (Eriksen, 2019, 91–93). In contrast, the location of the doorway in the end wall of these urban houses means that there is no such choice of movement: the entire house is displayed directly in front of you as you enter. One would proceed straight into the central aisle and main living space of the household. Instead of using the bent-axis layout, the urban dwellers inserted additional spatial units and divisions within their houses to alter the perceptions of depth, space, and privacy within the house. The most important of these units are the porches. The porches act as transitional spaces, controlling access to the central aisle or to corners. They mediate access from the carrier to the inside of the house, enhancing internal privacy, separating rather than connecting, and creating a modified ‘gradual reveal’ in these much smaller structures. The carrier would enter the building, traverse the porch, and then move into the central aisle. Very occasionally, side aisle access is mediated through a porch or end-room as we see in FS36 or FS99. This isolates the corners, removing them from the main activity area around the central aisle. Most often, side aisles are accessed via the central aisle, but this can be either two or three ‘steps’ away from the carrier, depending on whether there is a porch. This places the side aisles at the deepest points of the gamma analysis; they become the most private spaces. The corners display more variability; they may be on the same level as the side aisles (symmetrically placed), or they may be set away from the central aisle via porches. When corners and side aisles are symmetrically placed (e.g. FS49), each unit appears equally important from the point of view of movements. The side aisles and corners gain their relevance in connection with their transitional spaces, emphasising the importance of those transitional spaces in creating perceptions of depth and complexity in these reasonably small buildings. There are other attempts to create internal spatial privacy, such as the provision of internal doorways and thresholds, as in FS40, to suggest the presence of multiple internal rooms. The visual appearance of different paving styles within the houses is also factored in here. It is tempting to think that spaces which were clearly differentiated through their paving or partition walls – their micro-boundaries – are somehow more ‘important’ than spaces with earthen or clay floors. However, as the gamma analyses show, this is not borne out in terms of movement routes. When a porch is present, it acts to deepen the perceptions of space in a house, creating an illusion of spaciousness and separation without actually enlarging the building’s footprint. What is important here is the role which the heath plays; it is the feature around which all other movements are negotiated. That positioning guides, but also restricts, movement through the house, both physically and visually. It can block lines of sight and increase the (perception of) distance from one side of the house to the other. However, depending on the size of the fire and resultant smoke ceiling, the levels of intervisibility may increase or decrease (Nicholl, 2005,

Access Analysis  141 29–31). In very real terms, this central hearth is the only source of heat, light, and food for the household. The person in control of the hearth not only provides physical sustenance to the household through warmth and meals but also plays a role in overseeing access to and through the house. The importance of the central aisle is further emphasised by the presence of the hearth which is replicated in the analyses of other Scandinavian longhouses. The central placement of the hearth emphasises that the central aisle functions as the hub of the building, a transitional space. They mediate access to fixed points or destinations throughout the house, the side aisles, corners, and yards. When the central aisle acts as a transitional space, this becomes the space from which visitors to the house encounter the private world of the household. It represents the main route of movement through the house, but it is more than just a passageway. From the point of view of the outsider, this central aisle is the most important space in the building as it is the stage where the interactions between inside and outside and visitor and inhabitant take place. For the outsider, the side aisles are of lesser importance and the corners are of even less relevance. However, when viewed from the household’s perspective, all other spaces (corners, side aisles, and porches) are set at an equal remove from the central aisle. This affords these spaces a degree of relative privacy from this central thoroughfare and places these spaces, and their activities, at a remove from visitors to the household. Moving through Spaces

These houses were complex spaces, carefully managed by their occupants to separate the occupants and the visitors. These buildings primarily display dendritic and non-distributed patterns, reflecting that movements through the house were prescribed and, potentially, controlled and monitored by the household. These patterns can be termed either a ‘wide and shallow’ or ‘deep and narrow’ pattern of movement and are displayed in Figures 6.4 and 6.5. Both of these patterns are asymmetrical. Units rarely have access directly from one to the other; instead, they are negotiated via a transitional space. If we look across the time frame of these houses, both patterns are as likely to be present in the 9th century as in the 12th century. These are contemporary and complementary spatial patterns, but there are rare occasions where we can see one style replaces the other. To illustrate this, we can take a closer look at two houses which feature renovations and alterations. The first of these, BT, is from Level 7 in Temple Bar West, and it features three phases of use and alterations (Simpson, 2002, 297–304). It dates from the 10th century, has a floor area of 35.5 m2, and contained evidence for smallscale amber-working (ibid, 299–300). FS90 is a well-constructed building from Level 10 at Fishamble Street, measuring some 38.13 m2. We discussed its artefact assemblage in Chapter 5, noting the quality of the construction here as well as the nature of its artefact assemblage. As with BT, the initial gamma analyses of FS90 fall under the wide and shallow category. In Figures 6.3 and

142  The Households 6.4, we see that in Phase 1 in each house, the carrier – the stranger – takes their first step through the doorway straight into the central aisle. The carrier’s second step takes them further into the house, moving into either a corner space or a side aisle. Alternatively, they may exit the house via the rear door. Each space is symmetrical – that is, all spaces are evenly placed in relation to their depth within the house. All spaces are equally important, and no space is privileged by a deeper location within the house. There are no links between the side aisles and the corners, and all movements are negotiated via the central aisle. This is a non-distributed pattern: each spatial unit functions independently of its neighbours, while the central aisle and porches operate as transitional units. These houses are remodelled by the addition of a porch at the front (street end) of the house which mediates access to the central aisle (Figures 6.3 and 6.4). The visitor enters the house through this transitional porch, becoming aware of the wattle-paved corners on either side. Once in this porch, the visitor has to choose where to move next, either into the corners or forwards to the central aisle and hearth. If they move to the corners, the visitor is retained in this space and no further onward movement is possible. The corners are effectively movement dead-ends. Alternatively, if the visitor moves forwards into the central aisle, they will encounter the rest of the house, the hearth, and the household. From here, they may, if permitted, move through the rest of the house. These spaces are further divided by the provision of a new transitional unit at the rear of the house – there is another porch at the back door which leads to the yard. This deliberate segmentation of space into a series of distinct spatial units within the house creates an impression of greater complexity and privacy. Despite this appearance of greater spatial complexity, the patterns of movement are essentially the same as in the shallow houses. Access to the corners and side aisles is restricted and must be negotiated through transitional spaces. However, the main space of the house is immediately displayed on entering the building; there is no bent axis or gradual, dramatic reveal here. The question here is what does this change from ‘wide and shallow’ to ‘deep and narrow’ signify? There is little difference in how either of these layouts would have affected the ways in which the occupants used the buildings. The addition of porches or pavements does not greatly alter the buildings’ functions – it remains a home, a place for living and working. Nor do these new spaces seem to represent new functional activity areas, places where craft work, storage, cooking, or some other activity takes place. After all, this porch is literally the doorway to the house; it is a space to transit through. The household’s work and daily life carried on in much the same way as before, albeit on a slightly more solid footing. The real change seems to come from the perspective of the visitor. A visitor to phase 1 of FS90 or BT encounters a very different layout than a visitor to Phase 2. The earlier layout is more open, and the spatial units are all equally distributed. However, the Phase 2 alterations created new smaller, spatial units within the house, but we do not know the catalyst for this change. This may reflect changes in household structure, perhaps

Access Analysis  143 the presence of unmarried siblings, foster children, or grandparents and a need to create new space to house those additional household members. Regardless, the fact is that these alterations do not generally extend the floorspace available to the household. In fact, the opposite is true: creating internal partitions and paved areas removes floorspace from general use, privatising what was, formerly, an open space. Here, this shift seems to affect the visitor’s experience more than the occupants; we should consider that this relates to external, rather than internal, forces interacting with the household’s world. To understand this shift in perspective, we need to consider the wider patterns of spatial use in contemporary houses in both Ireland and Scandinavia. We have already considered the Viking-Age longhouses of Iceland and Norway (see above). The 9th- and 10th-century houses display fewer internal rooms and differentiated features and shallow spatial patterns (Milek, 2006, 140–146). In contrast, later 12th- and 13th-century longhouses were more complex, with greater spatial segmentation and deeper gamma analyses. In this later architecture, the smaller spaces are located deep within the houses and are indirectly accessed via movements through other spaces (Milek, 2006, 152–153). These, according to Milek, represent private household or familial spaces (ibid). They are physically and conceptually separated from the more open transitional spaces, such as the hall, which are usually much larger spaces with decorative elements such as wainscoting (ibid, 146). Milek relates this formalised separation to changing ideas about public and private spaces and a desire to formalise the separation of those spaces in the home in the post-settlement period. Price observes similar patterns, referring to this as the ‘mental template’ for Viking houses (Price, 1995, 123–124). For contrast, we can turn to Ireland’s well-preserved 7th- and 8th-century houses at Deer Park Farms, Co. Antrim (Jones, 2012; Lynn and McDowell, 2011a). This ringfort site had exceptional waterlogged preservation in its earlier levels, and some 30 post-and-wattle roundhouses were excavated at Deer Park Farms. These were a mix of smaller and larger buildings, some of which were joined together to create figure-of-eight structures. These are arranged so that the front house is the larger, more public space, whereas the back house is smaller and more private (Lynn and McDowell, 2011b, 588–592). The houses contained side aisles with bedding material, post-and-wattle walls, working areas, and central hearths. Their single doorways were oriented to the ringfort entrance and connected by formal pathways. Whilst Deer Park Farms predates the Viking-Age levels from Dublin, it is a valuable parallel because the quality of its preservation places it on equal standing with Viking-Age Dublin. In support of this, there is nothing from the hundreds of buildings known from early medieval Ireland to suggest that Deer Park Farms are anything but representative of the ideal early medieval rural settlement style (Jones, 2012, 184). Lynn and McDowell considered movement routes around the rath at Deer Park Farms as important features, emphasising elaborate access ways leading directly to front doors (Lynn, 1991, 128; Lynn and McDowell, 2011b, 585), but here we will turn to the movement routes inside the houses. Again, because of

144  The Households the outstanding preservation, the Deer Park Farms are ideally suited to access analysis, and their gamma analyses show some interesting results. Just as in the urban houses, the hearth is central to movement patterns (see the 8th century houses presented in Figure 6.6). There are, at most, two other features present in the gamma analyses, whether these were side aisle areas, a second hearth, or a conjoined ‘backroom’. These are very shallow gamma analyses, and these spaces are found just one or two steps away from the carrier. Because there are so few defined internal features, these gamma analyses are also very narrow. One notable difference from the urban houses is that the backhouse is often provided with a second hearth, something only occasionally found in the Type 2 house. The resultant impression is that these buildings are very simple spaces, with a minimum of fixed internal features. These are multipurpose spaces (Jones, 2012, 137) but are oriented around the needs of the household. There is one more major difference, and this is to be found before you even enter the house. These roundhouses are provided with one single doorway rather than the paired doors found in the street-fronting Type 1 house. In terms of movements, the roundhouses are fixed destinations, not transitional spaces. They restrict and deny, rather than enable, movements. If we return to the idea of the elementary building, these are closed, not open, cells. Open cells, such as the urban houses, are the locations of interfaces between the inhabitant and the ‘stranger’. They create an interface between the public/­ external viewpoint and the private/internal categories. Closed cells, like the Deer Park Farms roundhouses, privilege the inhabitant rather than the stranger. These are private spaces, set away from the wider world; they do not invite in strangers and are oriented around the needs of the household. Indeed, the Crith Gabhlach, an early 8th-century legal text, lists fines to be issued if visitors, or strangers, attempted to enter uninvited into the household’s personal space (Jones, 2012, 168–169; MacNeill, 1921, 292), underscoring this desire for privacy. The creation of internal closed spaces within the Type 1 house can also be interpreted as the creation of private, household-only spaces. The urban environment is one where there are greater numbers of people and influences passing through the streets and spaces outside and around the household. What we see in the Type 1 house may be a reaction to this busier world. The formalisation of internal spaces can be read as a change in the ways in which people organised their domestic spaces, their homes, in order to negotiate the busier wider world. While it is tempting to call this a response to influences from the Scandinavian world, particularly with the North Atlantic parallels, it is impossible to ignore the chronology here. The more complex North Atlantic longhouses date to a broadly 12th- and 13th-century period, while we are looking at housing practices in the 10th, 11th, and 12th centuries. Perhaps this is a result of increased exposure to foreign (possibly Scandinavian, or Anglo-Saxon or European) lifestyles through expanded trade networks, easier travel, and, above all, greater population movements. The later movements to complex spaces in Iceland could relate to the slower pace of change there.

Access Analysis  145 Reading Smaller Houses

The dominance of the Type 1 house is hard to escape, but these were not the only types of buildings constructed and used in Ireland’s Viking-Age towns. In Figure 6.6, there are gamma analyses of several Type 2, 3, and 5 structures which displayed complete ground plans. However, most of these structures did not contain any internal features and were simply unsuited to access analysis. House F – the only Type 3 house analysed – has two clear phases of occupation (Simpson, 2002, 200–223). The initial building featured areas of stone and wattle pavement, supporting Wallace’s original suggestion that this type of house was for walking around rather than resting (Wallace, 1992b, 16).

Figure 6.6 Justified gamma analyses of ancillary buildings from Dublin, Waterford, and rural settlements. Image by author.

146  The Households However, access analysis tells us nothing else about how this house might have been used. Of the Type 5 structures, five were animal pens (based on occupation deposits) and only one, FS64, may have had a roof. Their only distinguishing features are their entranceways: two were simply breaks in the walls, which probably contained a gate of some form. Based on the survival of door jambs, the remainder were provided with a door. Unfortunately, there is no correlation between building function and doorway type: the pens are as likely to have doors as a break in the wall. This underscores the limitations of access analysis; it works only when there are clearly identifiable architectural features. If we turn to the Type 2 houses, we see some new patterns (Figure 6.6). The Type 2 houses are found in the rear yards of the properties, usually accessed via the main house and contain floor deposits, artefacts, bedding areas, and sometimes hearths. The structures here date from the 10th to the early 12th century and are all of post-and-wattle construction. These are generally single-phased structures, although one house (AO) had three distinct phases of floors and hearth material. However, it did not have any internal spatial subdivisions and neither did BX. The other two Type 2 houses, FS23 and FS84, display patterns similar to that found in the Type 1 houses (a non-distributed symmetry centring the hearth though on a much smaller scale). These houses have just one doorway. Fredengren argues, in relation to the Type 2 houses, that a single doorway may imply “that the house has a purpose in its own right” (­Fredengren, 2007, 292). However, in terms of their movement patterns, they are closed cells, which translates to a higher degree of privacy for these buildings, just as we saw at Deer Park Farms. This becomes relevant when we turn to the gamma analysis of Structure 2, Cherrywood (Ó Néill, 2006). This poorly preserved building also has just one doorway, and there are two possibilities for its internal layout. It may have had two separate side aisles or a single U-shaped aisle. It probably also had a central hearth, although there was no evidence to support (or deny) this. The gamma analyses of both potential layouts have parallels in urban houses, namely FS23 and FS84 (Figure 6.6), suggesting that these three houses were all used in the same manner. Interestingly, both FS23 and FS84 are Type 2 houses, while Structure 2 is identified as a Type 1 house despite its lack of opposed doorways. These paired doorways are an integral part of the roof support system which defines the Type 1 house, and their absence here is notable. Perhaps, based on these similarities in spatial arrangement, Structure 2 should be considered closer in function and use to a Type 2 house just as FS29 was (see Chapter 5). This is borne out by the closed cell nature of its gamma analysis, making this a private space rather than a public one. Regardless, this building has a close resemblance to spatial layouts visible in the urban houses and should be considered part of the same cultural milieu. The Type 2 houses are interpreted as residential structures, although there is no agreement about who may have resided in them. Suggestions include small family groups (Fredengren, 2007, 292), women (Wallace, 2016, 91), the infirm or elderly (Wallace, 1992b, 15), or children (McAllister, 2008, 210). Not every

Access Analysis  147 Type 1 house was associated with a Type 2 house, suggesting that not every household required one and its function may have been somewhat specialised. This lends support to the suggestions of extended residential space functions, as this takes account of variation in household sizes from one property to another. Almost half of all Type 2 houses contain hearths, making it unlikely that small children would have been left here unsupervised. In medieval England, cradle fires were a leading cause of death for babies, and children younger than five were not considered suitable babysitters because of their short attention span (Hanawalt, 1986, 175–179). The presence of a hearth in some (though not all) Type 2 houses may be pertinent, given its importance in the Type 1 house and at Deer Park Farms. Type 2 houses with hearths may hint at a higher-status resident. In both Irish and Viking societies, the requirements for hospitality to guests are well known (Brink, 2008, 22–23; Kelly, 1988, 139–140; O’Sullivan and Nicholl, 2011, 61). If the occupant of a Type 2 house had their own hearth, they could offer hospitality to their guests on their own terms and without the intervention of the rest of the household. An alternative explanation is that these houses were residences for people of the entirely opposite status – ­enslaved people, separated from the households which they served (see Brink, 2021, 262–264 for some discussion on separate slave quarters). However, this idea of separation runs contra to other work on the relationships and networks that enslaved people were enmeshed within. Rather, it seems that the social relations between captors and enslaved peoples were active and regularly reinforced through ongoing contacts (Raffield, 2019b, 683). Building Across Time and Space Access analysis is a tool which can be scaled up or down, depending on the complexity of the architecture under question. It provides an easily reproducible model of analysis which allows for relatively quick comparisons of large samples of buildings. With appropriate data, we can use access analysis to ask questions about how architecture changes over time and what that can tell us about the occupants of these buildings. I want to look now at three sequences of buildings, each of which takes a different perspective on the scales of change over time and space. Property 3, Peter Street, Waterford

The first of these is the series of street-fronting houses from Property 3 on Waterford’s Peter Street (see Scully and McCutcheon, 1997 for full excavation details). This sequence of five houses was established in the mid-11th century with housing continuing on this plot until the early 13th century (Figure 6.7 and Table 6.1). The first house, PS3:L1, was used over two building levels, without any signs of remodelling (Figure 6.7). The floor space was divided into the typical three

148  The Households

Figure 6.7 Justified gamma analyses of housing sequences from Property 3, Peter Street, Waterford and Property 11, Fishamble Street, Dublin. Image by author.

aisles, indicated by internal post-and-wattle walls and the edges of floor layers. The northwest corner contained a gravel spread, likely the remnants of a small pavement. It was replaced in Level 3 by a new house, PS3:L3. Both the Level 1 and Level 3 houses demonstrate wide and shallow layouts but with one significant difference. The corners appear to be incorporated into the side aisles which extend the full length of the building. An additional feature in the Level 3 house is the ‘box’, which is a small, enclosed area inside the northern doorway (Scully and McCutcheon, 1997, 69–71). The space was differentiated in

Access Analysis  149 Table 6.1  Houses in Property 3, Peter Street, and Property 11, Fishamble Street Stratigraphic Date Level

House

Comment

Peter Street Property 3 1

Mid-11th century

2

Mid-/Late 11th century Late 11th century

3 4

Late 11th/Early 12th century

5 6

Late 11th/Early 12th century Early 12th century

7 8

Early 12th century Mid-12th century

9

Mid-/Late 12th century

10 & 11

Late 12th/Early 13th century

PS3:L1 First house on property, Type 1 house, 3 internal aisles, 1 defined corner, ‘box’ area, and stone-kerbed central hearth. No change, house still in use PS3:L3 New Type 1 house, 3 internal aisles, stone kerbed central hearth, and ‘box’ area Extensive remodelling: new floor, new central hearth, new northern threshold, possible seat area. Minor alterations, hearth and northern threshold are replaced. PS3:L6 New Type 1 house, 3 internal aisles, central hearth, internal threshold indicating remains of a porch? Minor alteration, threshold replaced. PS3:L8 New Type 1 house, 3 internal aisles, central hearth and ‘box’ area PS3:L9 New house, Type 6, sill-beam and plank construction, with side aisles and central hearth No structural alterations, new floors laid, house still in use

Fishamble Street, Property 11 6 7 8

Mid-/Late 10th century Late 10th century Late 10th century

9

Late 10th/Early 11th century

10

Early 11th century

11

Early 11th century

12

Early/Mid-11th century

FS36

1st Type 1 house, internal aisles, central hearth and unusual porch no house FS62 New Type 1 house, internal aisles, central hearth, 2 paved corners FS78 New Type 1 house, internal aisles, central stone kerbed hearth, 1 differentiated corner FS90 New Type 1 house, internal aisles, central hearth, extensive timber carpentry FS90A Extensive remodelling: wall extended, new porch, new paving. FS99 New Type 1 house, internal aisles, central hearth, internal threshold FS110 New Type 1 house, internal aisles, central hearth, less than half the building located inside excavation cutting

150  The Households Level 1 by the provision of a compact and distinct clay floor here which was walled off in Level 3 to create a 1-by-1.1 m space. The fill of this area was similar to the side aisles, which suggests that it may have been a seating area or, at least, fulfilled similar purposes to the side aisles. This ‘box’ remained in place through to Level 5, when it disappears and is a feature unique across the entire corpus of Ireland’s Viking-Age houses. The Level 4 alterations to PS3 see the addition of new floors and thresholds, changes to the hearth, and the introduction of a ‘seat’. This was a small rectangular stone setting placed to the southwest of the hearth, against the southern side aisle. The stones were revetted by planks set on edge. Given the proximity of this feature to the hearth, Scully and McCutcheon (1997, 76) suggest it was a seat or bench and was somehow related to food preparation. The Level 5 remodelling consists of further mostly superficial alterations to the hearth and northern, rear doorway – there are no changes to the spatial layout. With five distinct internal spatial units, the Level 4 remodelled house is the ‘widest’ house in the Property 3 sequence. As with the Dublin houses this central aisle is a key transitional space, funnelling visitors into and through the house. This positioning of the ‘seat’, adjacent to the hearth and jutting out into the central aisle, is very prominent within the house. This seat may represent a formalisation of the importance of the hearth – a ‘high seat’ for a person of power within the household. Similar features are noted beside the hearths in two levels in Property 7 at Peter Street, but there are no comparable features from any other site in Ireland. In Level 6, a new post-and-wattle house replaces the Level 3 structure. This introduces an internal porch for the first time, conveying an impression of spatial depth and complexity. This deeper gamma analysis reflects similar layouts in other Type 1 houses, but it is not identical to them as there are no corner units. This house remains in use with no alterations in Level 7. At the end of its life cycle, this house is demolished and a new post-and-wattle house is constructed in Level 8. Unfortunately, the footprint of the house shifts forward closer to the line of Peter Street in Level 8, and the southern doorway and associated porch area lay outside the edge of excavation. It is not clear whether the front porch was retained as a feature of the houses in this property from this point in time or whether its Level 6 appearance was a once-off. This Level 8 building was larger than its predecessor and had three internal aisles and a central hearth. Level 9 marks the end of post-and-wattle construction and the introduction of sill-beam construction both here in Property 3 and elsewhere on Peter Street. One of the main advantages of sill-beam construction is that the roof support function transfers from the free-standing floor posts to the side walls, giving the opportunity to remove the roof-supporting posts from the interior and thus redesign the internal space (Scully and McCutcheon, 1997, 106). However, the identical spatial configuration of side aisles appears in PS3:L9 as before despite the absence of roof-supporting posts. This may suggest that, at least up until the late 12th century, this three-aisled layout was considered the

Access Analysis  151 ‘correct’ way to arrange one’s home. This house was refloored in Level 10, and a porch area was added inside the northern doorway and in Level 11. There was no evidence for side aisles, suggesting that they were no longer considered necessary. Moving further forward in time, the remaining houses in this property sequence are also sill-beam houses without any evidence for side aisles. Property 11, Fishamble Street, Dublin

The second sequence of buildings is from Fishamble Street in Dublin (Figure 6.7 and Table 6.1). Property 11 is one of the larger properties here, and it was the focus of Geraghty’s archaeobotanical analysis (Geraghty, 1996). Only the front yard and main building on Property 11 at Fishamble Street lay within the excavation cutting, revealing a series of houses dating from the second half of the 10th to the end of the 11th century. Six of the seven houses from Property 11 were deemed suitable for access analysis, but the final house – FS121 – was too poorly preserved to include. As Figure 6.7 shows, the ‘deep and narrow’ pattern of spatial layout prevails here, displaying symmetrical and non-distributed dendritic layouts in five houses. As before, this reflects control over movement, the segregation of individual spatial units, and the use of lobbies and central aisles as transitional spaces. FS90 is the only house which does not conform to this pattern, displaying instead the ‘wide and shallow’ layout. However, as discussed earlier, this house undergoes significant renovations, including insertion of a new porch, internal walls, and moving the end walls. This renovation creates FS90A and effectively restructures the house and its layout towards the prevailing ‘deep and narrow’ pattern of Property 11. In both FS36 and FS99, the carrier can access the southern side aisle from the street end of the house without entering the central aisle. It is possible that FS99 also had an access route from the northeast corner into the northern side aisle, again circumventing the central aisle. This avoidance of the central aisle is highly unusual, and its presence here in Property 11, separated by five stratigraphic levels, is curious. The only other house to display a similar access pattern is FS88, where the southern side aisle can be accessed through the southwest corner. Unlike FS88, where the southern side aisle was a fully separate room (see Chapter 5), FS36 and FS99 have side aisles that were also accessible from the central aisle. Exactly why this unusual access route was provided is unclear, but further investigations, perhaps of the artefact distributions, might explain this. That both examples of this spatial organisation occur within Property 11 might indicate that it was a practice specific to this property and its household. Overall, Property 11 displays a static and conservative approach to building layout, one in which little changes over time. There is a high degree of household control over the space. FS90 could be interpreted as an attempt to change the pattern but one which was unsuccessful and quickly returned to the accepted layout.

152  The Households Building Level 8, Fishamble Street, Dublin

The third sequence is a contemporary sequence: Building Level 8 from Fishamble Street. This building level dates to the late 10th-century and contains seventeen buildings distributed across eleven properties (see Figure 6.8, see also Wallace, 1992b, 151–161). Unfortunately, the very front and rear of the Fishamble Street properties lay just outside the excavation limits, and the exact layout of these important boundaries is unknown. This means that while we can explore movements within discrete properties, we cannot reconstruct the relationships between properties. This obviously limits the potential of access analysis at a larger scale across multiple streets, excavations, or contexts. What is clear here, however, is that there were clear boundaries between neighbouring properties and their households. These boundaries impact upon both the life of the household and the life of the street. As with most properties at Fishamble Street, a pathway leads from the street to the front door of each street-fronting Level 8 house. The front door is paired with its opposite rear door and thus the main house becomes a transitional space, mediating access to the rear yard and its pits, pathways, middens, animal pens, and ancillary buildings. As we might expect from the analysis of individual houses, the pattern which emerges here is a pattern of controlled access. Visitors to the property are corralled into a defined movement pattern, as are the occupants of the property. Movements from one unit to the next are carefully ordered, and access from one unit to the next could be restricted at various points – at the front door, inside the house, at the back door, or at the point of entry to ancillary buildings. This is consistent with an interpretation of the main house on the property as public space and the rear of the property as a more private space (Hillier and Hanson, 1984, 167). However, in properties 2, 4, 5, and 12, this controlled and ordered pattern changes, and there are movement paths allowing the carrier to access the rear yard without going through the main house. This type of spatial pattern is an annular or ring-y distribution pattern, as opposed to a dendritic pattern, and it indicates freer movement within a less controlled environment. It creates more opportunity for movement around and through the property and makes it more difficult to restrain that movement. There might be very practical reasons for these alternate routes. In Property 2, FS50 had a single doorway rather than a pair of opposed doorways; therefore, there was no through access as we usually expected in the main house on a property. In property 4, a pair of reasonably large Type 5 structures (FS52 and FS53) measuring more than 6 m in length and 3 m in width may have been enclosures rather than residential buildings. Given their size, they may have been animal pens, and in this situation, it is not unreasonable to expect that access to them was oriented around the household’s main living spaces rather than through them. Alternatively, the activities under way in the rear yards might have necessitated this alternative access. Some industries produce physically large products which may have been easier to negotiate around the house than through it (e.g. coopering of

a) Plan of excavated buildings, Fishamble Street, Dublin. Redrawn from Wallace (1992b), Figure 10. b) Justified gamma analyses of Building Level 8. Image by author.

Access Analysis  153

Figure 6.8 Building Level 8, Fishamble Street Dublin.

154  The Households large barrels). Although there is no evidence that coopering did take place in any of these properties, artefact evidence would help to pinpoint the activities that did take place there, and this information could be incorporated into future analyses. From the perspective of access routes, these are two different ways of moving around inside the properties. In this building level, most properties exhibit a very private spatial organisation which is controlled from within the property. Strangers must pass through the street-fronting house in order to be admitted to the rear yard. The street-fronting Type 1 house becomes a transitional space, allowing access to further spatial units within the built space. The overall pattern here is closer to a closed cell than an open one; the inhabitants control the space and the means of accessing it. However, the annular patterns in properties 2, 4, and 5 indicate a different pattern, where rear-yard access can be navigated via two different routeways. These yards are usually understood as private or household spaces, but following this line of thought, the private rear yard becomes a more public area. In these properties, the main house becomes more private as it is no longer the only means of accessing the rear yard. While it still mediates access between the street and the rear yard, the main house is still a transitional space. However, it is less crucial to negotiation of movement routes because there is an alternative access route; it is no longer the only point of contact between public and private. The two spaces – the main house and the rear-yard spaces – may even become independent of each other rather than intimately connected as in the dendritic patterns. Wallace (2000, 272) stresses that movement through the property is key to understanding how the inhabitants related to each other and to understanding wider issues such as civic authority, the relationships between neighbours, passers-by, and the households, and the conventions of tradition. The streetfront of the buildings and the properties was on public view, open to all from the road, whereas their interiors were more private and controlled spaces. The gamma analyses of the properties at Building Level 8 lend additional support to this hypothesis. In particular, the idea of privileging access for the household and restricting access to the stranger is helpful when considering how people moved around and between different properties and houses. It is equally insightful to see when these movement norms are turned around, as in the ring-y properties of Building Level 8. A Cultural Genotype? Ostwald (2011, 465) contends that access analysis really comes into its own when it has a larger sample size to work with, as it does here. This allows us to consider whether or not repeated patterns are connected to cultural norms and behaviours, as many proponents of access analysis would argue (Foster, 1989a, 43; Price, 1994, 67). Here, we have repeated instances of ‘wide and shallow’ or ‘deep and narrow’ spatial patterning in these houses from Dublin and Waterford. Do these patterns reflect wider social or cultural beliefs about appropriate

Access Analysis  155 ways of organising space? If so, is it possible that individual households identified more or less strongly with one or other way of thinking about and organising spaces. Both the ‘deep and narrow’ and ‘wide and shallow’ houses are open cells, provided with two doorways which invite movement through the house and its spaces. It is within the house that the difference between these two movement patterns becomes apparent. Price (1994, 1995), Milek (2006), and Organista (2015) all point to the development of greater spatial complexity in North Atlantic longhouses over time. Organista even notes that the layout of 12th- and 13th-century Icelandic houses is representative of “what a good house is” (Organista, 2015, 60). It is possible that the more complex houses, such as A5, BN, FS76, and FS88, were built and occupied by households which had closer identifications with Scandinavian-inspired ways of thinking about private spaces. Conversely, the ‘wide and shallow’ houses, such as those at Property 3, Peter Street are simpler and less cluttered. These have more in common with the closed-cell roundhouses found at Deer Park Farms despite the paired doorways. Whilst these particular houses at Deer Park Farms predate the Type 1 house by at least a century, they represent the ideal of the early medieval roundhouse (Lynn, 1991, 130). Inside these houses, it seems to have been important to keep the interiors as open as possible with plenty of space between the central hearth and the bedding areas. Does this distinction represent a manifestation of a particularly Irish way of organising internal spaces? This could be further developed if we return to BT and FS90, the two multiphase houses. Their initial layouts were essentially ‘wide and shallow’, but both were enhanced by the demarcation of corners and addition of porch units, turning them into ‘deep and narrow’ layouts. If each of these layouts represents a particularly Irish or Scandinavian-inspired way of living, it is not unreasonable to suggest that the earlier phase of both houses indicates a more local presence in the construction and use of the building but that the later phase marks a move towards the more complex international style of buildings. Interestingly, this transition is from the more open, Irish, patterns towards the closed Scandinavian/North Atlantic patterns, hinting that the latter influences were stronger than the former. Alternatively, this could reflect a change in the household structure, perhaps the introduction of a new household that had a different cultural background and that could influence the remodelling of their new home. Conclusion The simplest interpretation of this change is to position it in terms of an ethnic distinction; do these two layouts indicate particularly Irish and Scandinavian ways of thinking about and moving through built space? The simple answer is rarely the right answer, however, and here we need to consider the context and chronology of these houses. First of all, these are not rural settlements; these are urban houses. They are a world apart from the longhouses of Iceland and

156  The Households Norway or the roundhouses of County Antrim. Furthermore, most of these come from 11th- or 12th-century Hiberno-Scandinavian levels; these are not ‘Viking’ houses. It would be more productive if we reframed this discussion in the light of a growing desire in the 11th and 12th centuries for greater (or lesser) degrees of familial or household privacy in individual houses. If we return to the idea of the elementary building and the open-versus-closed cell, we can adapt this to consider which houses were more or less open to the outside world. This would allow us to move beyond the simplicity of Deer Park Farms and other isolated farmsteads where the outside world was at a remove from the home. Instead, we can recognise the nuance and degrees of coexistence in the urban architecture where the outside world is right outside your door. The urban landscape was complex and busy. Individual homes were organised in such a way as to enable their inhabitants to structure their interactions with and respond to that complex, changing urban world outside their door.

7

Exploring the Properties

Introduction We now turn our attention back to that world outside the door of the house, to the yards and properties which were an integral part of every household’s space. A household does not just live in or use a single building at a time (Allison, 1999, 4–5). Each of these urban houses is set into its own yard, marked by fences, by other buildings, and by other households. Then, there are the spaces and connections between and around each of these elements. All these spaces must be considered an integral part of each household’s daily landscape (Carsten and Hugh-Jones, 1995, 3). In this context, each property should be seen as a container which frames their inhabitant’s immediate worlds (Hamerow, 2002, 53). These are self-contained units, bounded by their limits and their connections to their neighbours and their immediate environments. We saw in Chapters 2 and 3 how these properties and boundaries were a fundamental part of the emerging urban landscape. Here, we look in greater detail at how these boundaries evolved and developed during the establishment and expansion of housing sequences at each site. We then consider how the ‘constructed elements’ of the properties framed and shaped the spaces around which each household navigated. This includes both built and unbuilt spaces, roofed and unroofed structures, hard paved surfaces and pits, and patches of cultivated ground and trees. The materiality of these elements shaped the dayto-day life of the household which was anchored in the repetition and familiarity of the property. Property Development Across Time In this section, we will look at the development of property sequences at each site. Beginning in the 9th century, we see that initial property layouts display more variability in their boundary arrangements. This flexibility disappears within one or two generations of housing, resulting in the fixed property layouts of the 11th and 12th centuries.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003039006-9

158  The Households The 9th Century

As we saw in Chapter 2, there are two foci of 9th-century settlement in Dublin. The first of these is the activity centred on the Black Pool, and the second is the development of the housing sequence at Temple Bar West at the junction of the Poddle and the Liffey. The earliest houses at Temple Bar West are Site A’s sunken-floored structures, which do not have property boundaries. Instead, they are associated with apparently communal cobbled and metalled surfaces with shared hearths (Simpson, 2002, 101). These short-lived structures are filled in during reclamation work in Level 5 (late 9th to early 10th century) when a set of four new rectangular properties were established here, although these remained unbuilt spaces for some years. On Sites B, C, and D, six new properties were established in Level 5. These new properties varied in size and did not have a common orientation. Some boundary fences hugged the footprint of the buildings, indicating that these were tightly constrained properties (e.g. O and P, Level 5; Simpson, 2002, 185–193). The existence of properties here indicates some communal decision-making (ibid, 199). Just west of Site A, at Parliament Street, the first properties (Phase 1, Level 3, late 9th century) are oriented northeast–southwest and remain static until the late 10th century (Scally, 1996, 11–18). However, there is one structure from Phase 1, Level 2 which has a different orientation – north– south – and is not associated with any boundaries. This is likely the eastern extent of the same phase of activity as Level 5, Temple Bar West. At South Great Georges Street, there are no boundaries associated with Structures A or B. The third building here – Structure C – was erected to the west of Structure B at some point during Phase 3, possibly in the 880s (Simpson, 2008, 65). Structure C sits virtually at right angles to Structure B, which, if they were contemporary, would be very unusual. Unfortunately, the stratigraphy here is very confused, and it is possible that Structure B and Structure C were not contemporary and that Structure C overlies Structure B. In that situation, this could indicate a deliberate realignment of building orientations in this part of Dublin. As suggested in Chapter 3, this may indicate a simple ­restructuring of property ownership here along the lines of that seen in Level 7, Temple Bar West. Alternatively, if Structure C post-dates Structure B by even a couple of decades, this re-orientation may relate to the 917 return of Viking power to Dublin and signify a deliberate and decisive break with the traditional longphort at the Black Pool.

The 10th century

In the early 10th century, the very first housing level at Fishamble Street is sparsely occupied with varying building orientations (see Figure 5.1). This pattern is quickly regularised. The properties from Level 2 onwards display clear spatial patterning oriented along the new streetfront with regular boundaries which continue into the 12th century (Wallace, 1992a, 1992b). At Temple Bar West, residential activity shifts to Site A, where the first domestic houses are

Exploring the Properties  159 built on the four new properties in an “intensive building programme” in Level 6 (Simpson, 2002, 831). In Level 7, these large properties are subdivided into six to eight narrower properties which Simpson suggests represents an ‘urban renewal’ of the existing settlement, associated with the 917 return of Viking power and its resultant population influx (Simpson, 2002, 832). These properties continue in use from the early 10th to the late 12th century, and 10 levels of housing stretch right into the Anglo-Norman period (ibid, 833). This sequence is complex, but these early property boundaries are maintained for several generations, indicating a remarkable a longevity in these boundaries. Inside the boundaries, the layout of features is similar to Fishamble Street with a large building at the front of the property. At the rear, there is a much more dynamic sequence of activity with rapid replacement of pits, pens, and outbuildings. Simpson (1999, 33) has argued that by the later 10th century, the wealth and status of Temple Bar West decrease: there are fewer ‘high-quality’ artefacts, a greater number of repairs, and an increase in the use of poorer-quality material in those repairs. Sites B, C, and D were no longer used for housing, with different parts used for industrial work (evidenced by kilns, related deposits, and burned-down structures) (Simpson, 2002, 404–408; Stillman et al., 2003), while the Liffey riverside areas were viewed as marginal grounds evidenced by phases of dumping activities. At Parliament Street, the properties established in the late 9th century remain in use through the 10th century and indeed up until the late 11th century. South of Fishamble Street, Hayden’s five mid-10th-century properties at Werburgh Street are quite different (Figure 7.1). These do not share Fishamble Street’s regular rectangular/trapezoidal boundaries and orientation, although each property had a pathway leading to the doors of the main building. However, these pathways all point in the same direction, almost as if they originated from a single point. This is most unusual: at all other sites, each property has its own unique pathway (leading directly from the street), which is never shared with other properties. This shared alignment may indicate a common point of entry to this set of properties – a shared laneway. Hayden suggested that these buildings represented a second ‘tier’ of properties which lay behind a line of primary properties fronting directly onto the line of Werburgh Street, almost a mews arrangement. If so, they may have been clustered around the end of a laneway which provided access to this site. By the end of the 10th century, much larger structures, which Murray considered to be ‘pretentious’ in their design, appear within the first properties at Christchurch Place (Figure 7.1 and Murray, 1983, 54–56). The trench locations make it difficult to generalise about property layouts here, but the buildings are situated tight to the boundaries with numerous smaller associated buildings. Public or Private Belief in 10th-century Dublin

While we are considering the nature of 10th-century Dublin, we should return to a point I noted briefly in Chapter 3: the presence of a series of deposits of

160  The Households

Figure 7.1 10th-century property layouts in Dublin. a) Werburgh Street, Level 4, mid- to late 10th century. After Hayden (2002), Figure 4. b) Christchurch Place, Phase 2, late 10th century. After Murray (1983), Figure 22.

Exploring the Properties  161 animal skulls in and around buildings. I suggested that these deposits could be interpreted as evidence of Scandinavian influences in their associated houses and households. In pre-Viking and Viking-Age Scandinavia, pagan belief practices are centred in the home, and the head of the household leads the physical and social expressions of those beliefs (Hall, 2007, 168). These beliefs are physically built into the structure of the home through the careful placement of ritual deposits (Eriksen, 2019, 163–175), while the regular performance of maintenance activities such as weaving also ties ritual beliefs into the household (Dommasnes, 2008). Indeed, Brück warns against the dangers of attempting to separate out ritual or religious activities from domestic activities, noting that “ritual and domestic practice are not usually distinguished in such categorical terms, and houses often form an important focus for ritual activities” (Brück, 2008, 252). In stark contrast, Irish Christian beliefs are expressed publicly in designed and designated places – the church – which ranged in scale from small parish churches to royally endowed cathedrals (Hughes, 2005, 635; Ó Corráin, 2005, 596–598). Expressions of belief were removed from the home and controlled and guided by a hierarchy of professionals. In this context, the appearance of these three apparently Scandinavian-influenced placed deposits in early 10th-century houses is noteworthy for its deviation from Christian norms. This is the period when Dublin is traditionally considered to have been re-occupied after the elite abandoned the town in 902. Two of these placed deposits are found at Temple Bar West. The first was a single cattle skull found below the hearth of a Level 7 Type 1 house at Temple Bar West (House BN, dating to the second or third decade of the 10th century; Simpson, 2002, 309). BN was occupied for two levels and replaced, in Level 9, by House BD in the late 10th or early 11th century. The second placed deposit, a horse skull, was placed below BD’s hearth. When BD went out of use, it was replaced by House BA, which, again, was occupied over two levels. Although BA, the third house in this sequence, is not associated with a ritual deposit, it was carefully positioned to maintain structural continuity between the two houses. This creates a link between three successive houses and over five stratigraphical levels with a potential time span of one and a half centuries. The sequence ends in Level 12, sometime after the mid-11th century, when this part of the site undergoes major redevelopment. This redevelopment saw Property 4 significantly widened while Properties 5, 6, and 7 were amalgamated into a single large property. The housing at this point shifts to the south, towards the presumed streetfront. The structural continuity from houses BN to BD to BA, which weakened in Level 11 when BA was not provided with its own ritual deposit (although it maintained physical structural continuity), was conclusively broken in Level 12. This realignment, previously considered only in terms of property ownership or familial inheritance (see Chapter 5, also Simpson, 1999, 30), could have a different interpretation. Is it possible that, in Level 12, the household converted to Christianity and made a decisive move away from the old ways by breaking the links between the structural continuity of houses and the underlying placed deposits?

162  The Households The third deposit is a group of three cow skulls found in Property 8, Level 9, Fishamble Street (Wallace, 1992a, Part 2, Figure 125). Two skulls with horns were placed side by side, top-to-tail in an east–west orientation, and a third skull was placed across the eastern end of this pair. This deposit was found in the centre of FS75, although there was no evidence for a hearth at Level 9. It is in the following level, Level 10, when a stone-lined hearth was constructed directly over these deposits in FS87. This house, FS87, contains both stone and timber pavements, defined side aisles, and the stone-lined hearth. In fact, all the buildings, apart from FS75, in this property contain a stone-lined hearth which, as we saw in Chapter 4, echoes Scandinavian and North Atlantic hearths. If we applied access analysis to this building, it would have a deep and narrow spatial layout, indicating a potential Scandinavian influence in its construction and design. The conjunction of all these elements – the placed deposit, the presence of a rectangular stone-lined hearth, and the deep and narrow spatial layout – suggests that the occupants of this property entertained Scandinavian links. These connections extended from their initial occupation of this property right through to the end of the excavated occupation sequence. Lund argues that the locations for making placed deposits are crucial in expressing the worldview of those making these deposits (Lund, 2008, 56–57). In this case, it is interesting to note that both BN’s and FS75’s ritual deposits were essentially made on open ground as they were found within or underlying building foundations. This raises the question of whether these deposits were made as public or private declarations of belief. These deposits occur in the mid- to late 10th-century occupation levels, towards the end of the period of furnished burials (c 930–950, Harrison, 2008, 79). This is a time when one would expect a downward trend in expressions of Scandinavian influences in the town. This roughly coincides with the deposition of several unusual burials of women and children on the margins of the town (Ó Donnabháin, 2010, 272–274). It is also concurrent with the growth of the York–Dublin relationship. Could we suggest that this relationship may have temporarily strengthened expressions of pagan belief in the town, promoting a short-lived renewal of traditional Scandinavian influences. The influence of the placed deposits seems to have waned by the middle of the 11th century, judging by the lack of building continuity after this. This is well within the era of Irish control of Dublin, after the traditional end of Viking power and the Battle of Clontarf (Downham, 2008, 61). The 11th and 12th centuries

In the 11th and 12th century, property development at all five of these sites continues in much the same vein (Figure 7.2). There are occasional changes; one such example comes from Level 12, Temple Bar West. Here, property 4 expands from 3.5 to 6.2 m in width, and the adjacent properties 5, 6, and 7 are amalgamated into a single ‘super-property’, indicative, again, of communal decision-making here (Simpson, 2002, 599–636). Smaller and larger properties

a) Level 10, Fishamble Street. After Wallace (2010), Figures 48.4 and 48.6. b) Winetavern Street, Phases 2 and 3, mid- to late 11th century. After Murray (1983), Figure 19. c) High Street (1962–1963), Phase 2, mid- to late 11th century. After Murray, 1983, Figure 18.

Exploring the Properties  163

Figure 7.2 11th-century property layouts in Dublin.

164  The Households are evident at other sites newly established during the 11th century. At Winetavern Street, multiple smaller buildings are laid out in three properties set at an angle to the pathway at the edge of the excavation, while at High Street, there are two different layouts (Murray, 1983, 43–60). The 1962–1963 site contained three properties with much larger buildings, similar in quality and style to nearby Christchurch Place (ibid, 56). The 1967–1972 excavations revealed six properties with fewer, smaller buildings and larger yards, including workshops and a byre, aligned roughly along the line of today’s High Street (ibid, 43–47). Interestingly, the first phase of buildings here also had quite tight property boundaries with the fences extending around but staying close to the buildings as seen at Level 5, Temple Bar West. This variety of 11th-century property boundaries led Murray to suggest that these represented distinct street-specific ‘trends’ which would have affected the use of the buildings and properties. Outside the walls, the buildings and fences at Hammond Lane and the Coombe indicate a regularised, systematic, and extensive layout of properties similar to Fishamble Street. At Hammond Lane, the single property contained the main house, rear-yard pits, and a path across the front yard. It was placed right against the flood bank for the Liffey in damp, subsiding ground conditions which Moriarty (2010, 73) interprets as the least desirable land available. This indicates that the land most suited to habitation was already built on as part of a more extensive northern suburb, by the early 12th century. The back yards of the properties at the Coombe contain ancillary rear-yard buildings, pits, middens, and pathways and potentially even rear-yard fences. Unfortunately, the front of the properties, fronting onto the Commons Water, was not excavated. This probably indicates a more ordered approach to land claim and building layout in the 12th century, and it contrasts with the more organic growth and varied layouts within the town in the 10th century. The key difference is that outside the town, the rear yards seem to be less congested than in Fishamble Street. This is possibly because these properties represent the initial suburban landtake and a somewhat idealised layout. Over time, these properties became more built-up and more complex to navigate around and rebuild through the older building layers. Despite this, these extramural properties maintained their boundaries over decades and centuries, just as those within the town did. Once established, these property boundaries are fixed. In Waterford, property sequences developed from the mid- to late 11th century (Hurley, 1997a, 21). These 14 Peter Street properties are not always demarcated by boundary fences, but divisions between properties were discerned archaeologically through deposition processes and the lines of houses (Hurley, 1997b, 896). Each property featured one main residential building and ancillary buildings. Pathways were most commonly found at the rear but not always to the front of the property (although Scully does point out that trench location may be a factor here; Scully, 1997, 39). As the ground in Peter Street is significantly dryer than in Dublin, these access routes may have been less formal than the pathways of Dublin, indicated by trodden ground rather than

Exploring the Properties  165 wattle paths over mud and detritus. The extramural settlement of Barronstrand Street is heavily disturbed by later activity but displays a similar character, with a large main house, fences, yard surfaces, and pits (Pollock, 2012; In preparation). Excavations at Cork’s South Main Street excavations revealed a series of properties oriented along the current street line (Hurley and Brett, 2014). The layout here is similar to contemporary suburban development in Dublin with main houses and rear-yard buildings and some boundaries between properties. Pathways were laid around and between the buildings, and a series of substantial stave-built fences marked the rear boundaries of these plots. There was no indication of any break in these rear fences which also had a revetment function. However, the South Main Street properties can be much wider than their Dublin counterparts; for example, in Level 3, Plot 2 was 9 m wide. This allows some more unusual building configurations, such as placing ancillary houses out of line with the main Type 1 house in Plots 1 and 2 to create a large open space between the two street-fronting Type 1 houses. This area is large enough to have been used as a property itself, but it contained the earlier reclamation fence which was still standing in the early 12th century (Ní Loingsigh, 2014b, 56–60). These arrangements hint that these early levels were not very densely occupied, that early revetment features were still visible and still had to be negotiated around. Our chronology of property development in Dublin is now quite extensive, stretching from the early 9th century right through to the 12th century. Our impressions of the internal appearances of the properties have been heavily shaped by the Fishamble Street excavations, but more recent and widespread excavations across Dublin show much greater diversity in property layouts which evolved from the 9th to the 12th centuries. Accessing the Property Properties are important not simply because they were defined pieces of land associated with a set of structures but also because they are the location for the household. As such, the properties hold the key to understanding how the household viewed itself in relation to the wider world. Households and communities work on many different scales, from the local to the global (Souvatzi, 2008, 1–4). Particularly in an urban context, the space within which the household is situated becomes an important locale in the negotiation of those scales and relationships. A crucial juncture in these negotiations is the point at which the property and the street (or in the countryside the world outside the farmed land) meet. The appearance of these spaces is crucial to exploring whether individual households conceived themselves as part of the wider world (by having open and unbounded yards) or isolated themselves with boundaries and fences. Unfortunately, these junctures are rarely excavated as they intersect with contemporary streetfronts, and the structural integrity of the modern street needs to be preserved. However, we do have some insights into this.

166  The Households The Streetfront

Significant portions of the property street-frontage are found at Fishamble Street, Werburgh Street, and Peter Street, giving us an overview of how this space was typically organised. The post-and-wattle boundary fences which ran between the properties could extended towards the front of the houses, providing visual confirmation of individual property boundaries to the passer-by on the street. These boundaries between different properties are almost never breached by gaps, so that when this does occur, it is noteworthy. Wallace (2005, 824) cites one such example in Castle Street, Dublin, where a wattle panel, left in a gap in the boundary fence, was interpreted as a gate. Two further examples come from Level 9 in Temple Bar West; there was a gap in the fence between properties 2 and 3 (Simpson, 2002, 438) and a formal pathway between properties 3 and 4 (ibid, 449). The overwhelming preference was to maintain the divisions between properties and restrict access to either the front or back of the property. Once you are inside the property, the first feature you see is a pathway leading from the street to the door of the house. This standard access was first found at Fishamble Street, and similar paths at Castle Street (Byrne, 2015, 348–350) and Werburgh Street (Hayden, 2002) confirm that this is a common practice in Dublin. However, such paths were less common on Peter Street, although a service trench disturbed some of these deposits (Scully, 1997, 37). The dominant feature at the front of the property is the large house, which sits with its gable end facing the street. This façade is punctuated by a single, central doorway highlighted by the pathway. Side access routes, passing between the house and the boundary fence, are rare. By and large, movements into and through the property were funnelled by the pathways into and through the house. It is quite rare to find a building in front of the main house; there are only a couple of instances of this in Dublin and Cork. Unfortunately, all these small street-fronting buildings were located at the very limits of the excavations, and their purpose is entirely unknown. They could have had residential, retail, storage, or even animal functions. Something quite different happens at Werburgh Street. At different points in the building sequence here, the front of these properties featured large pens, a roofed structure, and a cess pit. There were even troughs and furnaces for ironworking placed in between two Type 1 houses. The wisdom of carrying out ironworking activities in such congested settings must have come under scrutiny as D1’s western wall was damaged by fire (Hayden, 2002, 51). The regular placement of such working features at the front of the property is unusual and marks out Werburgh Street as the exception to the norm. By and large, the streetfronts of each property appear to have presented a relatively uniform façade, although there were instances where other building arrangements could be employed (e.g. properties 2, 4, 5, and 12 from Fishamble Street’s Building Level 8, as discussed in Chapter 6). Wallace found that rubbish pits were regularly placed in the front yard in Fishamble Street, and these were usually the more formal lined pits

Exploring the Properties  167 (Wallace, 2010, 526). He suggests that these may well have acted as displays of the household’s wealth or status. In Orkney, Harrison (2020, 361, 366) proposes that deposits of midden material were deliberately placed to emphasise the wealth and status of the household. At Hammond Lane, a stone pathway led directly from the front door of House 9 towards the street crossing the front yard which measured 5 by 4.5 m (Moriarty, 2010, 53). The path was edged with a small fence and overlain by deposits of sand, unburnt material, and rubbish. There were no pits at the front. The appearance here of a rubbish dump at the front of the property may be a similar signal of conspicuous consumption. Alternatively, it may simply indicate organised waste removal practices at a communal level. At Fishamble Street, as much as 12 m of open space lies between the houses and the road (Wallace, 1992b, Part 2, Figure 2). This is not, however, empty space. It contains some of those pathways and pits, boundary fence complexes, workspaces, and, occasionally, roofed or unroofed structures. We can compare this to Hall’s pen portrait of 10th-century Coppergate: a busy street lined with closely packed timber buildings; their eaves so close that they almost touched. On their frontages stalls sold all manner of domestic essentials and luxuries, and business was brisk, for Coppergate was one of the main cross-town arteries. (Hall, 1984, 65) Essentially, the front of the property acts as an extension to the street. In contrast, Peter Street’s 1 m of space between the houses and the original line of the road is empty of any features in the level-by-level reconstruction drawings (e.g. Scully and McCutcheon, 1997, Figure 6.30 or 6.62). As noted earlier, this space was disturbed by modern activity, and it is very likely that that ground was actively used by the household, particularly given the (admittedly disturbed) evidence for such activities at Barronstrand Street outside the walls. The Rear

The very rear of the properties are also subject to later disturbance, making observations about boundaries and layouts less certain. Wallace has suggested that a direct access route may have existed from the Liffey into the rear yards at Fishamble Street (Wallace, 1987b, 276). This likely derives from observations of Coppergate, where property boundaries did not seem to extend all the way to the river (Hall, 1994, 66–67). This means that, potentially, all these properties could access and be accessed from the river. However, there are some instances of rear boundary fences which would go against Wallace’s suggestion. One example is at the rear of properties 13 and 14 from Fishamble Street which is depicted as an unbroken boundary fence in a reconstruction drawing (Wallace, 1987b, 274, Figure 1). There are also features at the rear of

168  The Households the Coombe properties which could be interpreted as boundary fences (Collins and Weldon, 2019, 53). At Temple Bar West, two post-and-wattle fences, each up to 2.7 m long, ran across the rear of Property 6 in Site A (Simpson, 2002, 306). This boundary remained in use over four levels (from level 7 to level 10) and separated property 6 from a wattle pathway which ran parallel to the presumed street line (Figure 7.3). There are no indications that there was a gate or entranceway between this fence and the path. This path probably acted as a back alley running along the rears of these properties (F4257, ibid, 275) but not connecting them. Murray suggested that a similar back alley existed at Christchurch Place in the late 11th century (Murray, 1983, 54). We also see the presence of further obstructions across the rear of the yard in Temple Bar West. In property 2, animal pens and other structures ran across the full width of the rear yard in levels 8, 10, and 11, effectively blocking off this space (Simpson, 2002, 353–359). Based on all this, it seems that access through the rear of the properties was not a given. This may relate to individual household preference, the location within the town, whether or not there was an alley or lane at the rear of the property,

Figure 7.3 Artist’s impression of late 10th-century activity at Temple Bar West. Note the unbroken boundary at the rear of the properties and the pathways extending the full length of the rear properties. After Simpson (1999), Figure 12.

Exploring the Properties  169 or it could even be dictated by the range of household activities which occurred in any property. The Constructed Elements Within the property, a number of different ‘constructed elements’ combine to create the individual landscapes of each property. These range from the pits, paths, constructed surfaces, wells, hearths, and drains to the buildings themselves. These elements enclose and define the household spaces and the household zones and can change rapidly from level to level. A problem consistently encountered is that the structural evidence (buildings and boundaries) is prioritised in published plans, and the locations of pits, middens, or internal fences are rarely marked. Boundary fences and pathways fare significantly better and generally appear on the site plans and are noted in the accompanying texts. However, one only has to compare the plan of Level 10, Fishamble Street, published in 1992 (Wallace, 1992b, Figure 12), to a plan published in 2010 (Wallace, 2010, Figure 48.6) to see how much of an impact these ‘extra’ features can make on the apparently empty space around the houses. Neither the houses nor the properties are very large spaces. Realistically, only a limited number of activities (and people) could have been accommodated within the roofed spaces at any one time. Wallace calculated that up to 60% of available space within any property may have been covered by roofed spaces – whether these were buildings or covered yards. In FS3, Level 10, the exact proportion is 68%, and when the paths are added in, it goes up to 80% (Wallace, 2016, 54). The general preference must have been to make as much use as possible of all the space within each property, and it is unlikely that much land was left fallow or unused. Boundary Fences

The first of these constructed elements are the boundary fences. These are unchanging features of the urban landscape, marking the extents of individual properties (Boyd, 2013, 2014). They consist of stretches of post-and-wattle fences whose total length could be as long as 15 m (Plot 2, Level 11, Temple Bar West Simpson, 2002, 500). Fences range in height up to 0.9 m at Fishamble Street, while one fence panel at the Coombe was 1.2 m high (Collins and Weldon, 2019, 41). Occasionally, these fences incorporated blackthorn at the top or bottom, presumably to deter trespassers with the thorny material (Boyd, 2014, 16–17). The fences extended the full lengths of the back yard of the properties. The fences were often woven into structure walls and could be extended to the front of the house as far as the street (as in Fishamble Street, see Wallace, 2010, 529, Figure 48.3). This is not a given, and this could change from level to level. Fences are less common in Cork and Waterford, but the archaeological deposits there do indicate clear divisions between properties (Hurley, 2014a, 481; Scully and McCutcheon, 1997, 54).

170  The Households Contemporary Irish laws mention four different types of fences for land divisions, and I suggest that these early urban fences were derived from the nochtaile (Boyd, 2014, 17). This ‘bare fence’ is noted in the 7th-century Bretha Comaithchesa which discusses boundary violations in early medieval Ireland (Kelly, 1988, 273; Lynn and McDowell, 2011b, 581). This post-and-wattle fence is 1.8 m high and functions as a barrier against “damscuithit (both fullgrown and small animals); a small animal cannot go through it because of its closeness, an ox cannot go through it because of its height and firmness” (Ó Corráin, 1983, 248). The nochtaile marked out landholdings in the countryside, so it is not surprising to see the nochtaile in use in the earliest levels of Dublin, when boundaries around landholdings were required (Boyd, 2014, 17). This fence type is ideal for an urban environment as it is much smaller and neater than a ditch or stone fence, both of which were supposed to measure 3 feet wide. It is also quick and easy to repair and replace, as it uses hazel and willow rods, which could be easily managed for supply to the town. If this fence were suitable to deter animal trespass, it certainly could have been suitable to deter human trespass, particularly when augmented with thorns. Constructed Surfaces

Insect analysis of deposits from within the properties at Fishamble Street indicates that much of the open space was damp, dungy, and unpleasant to step on (Reilly, forthcoming). If it was not, the space was likely to feature a pit, drain, or a midden; again, these would be unpleasant to step on or fall into. In this environment, a variety of constructed surfaces are regularly found at the front or the rear of the property. These were generally composed of wattle, stone, or timber pavements and can take the form of open spaces, fenced in areas or defined pathways and they serve a number of purposes, not least keeping your feet dry. All of these were intended to level or firm uneven or wet ground (both inside and outside the houses). Wattle mats were frequently excavated lying on the ground, but it is unclear whether these mats were deliberately laid down as surfaces or were discarded from elsewhere. At 36–39 South Main Street, oyster shells were used to construct paved areas (Ní Loingsigh, 2014b, 82). Stone paving or cobbling was often placed immediately outside doorways in areas of heavy traffic, and the corners of houses were also occasionally shored up with stones (an example is house 15, 35–39 South Main Street in Cork, Ní Loingsigh, 2014b, 67). In Dublin, there are more extensive stone yards, including one from Property 6, Level 10, Fishamble Street which was kerbed, or perhaps fenced, with post-and-wattle walls. Wallace suggests these were “quasi-industrial” surfaces (Wallace, 2010, 534). A similar surface came from Plot 5/6, Level 12, Temple Bar West (Simpson, 2002, 625–629). This trapezoidal yard (F3516) had a compact surface of medium-sized flat stones, was enclosed by boundary fences and the path, and was accessed via a gate. This yard was enlarged in Phase 2 and was gradually covered with gritty organic material which had been heated or burnt, but there was no evidence of any fire.

Exploring the Properties  171 There are no indications as to the purpose of these surfaces, and one can only speculate that they were, as Wallace suggested, related to some sort of productive activity. Given their substantial construction, they may have been intended to function as surfaces where heavy-duty work could be carried out (e.g. iron-working) (A. Corless, pers. comm.). Timbers are usually reserved for use in pathways rather than as surfaces, but there is one timber yard from Fishamble Street’s Level 10. This surface had a gravel foundation and consisted of a series of dismantled timbers which subsided into the gravel before being topped with a wattle mat (Wallace, 2010, 535). Very unusually, this yard connected two Type 1 houses in the same property; Wallace suggests that these may have acted as a street-fronting workshop/ shop and a residential rear building. An alternative explanation comes from Waterford, where Pollock suggests that adjacent houses like these were conjoined buildings, sharing a roof in order to increase heat retention (Pollock, 2012; In preparation). Perhaps this yard was a roofed shared space between two conjoined buildings. Pathways

The various parts of the properties are connected by extensive networks of pathways. These are usually well constructed, with foundations and post-andwattle or timber revetting fences. Pathway materials included stone, wattle panels, wooden planks, and timbers or a combination of these. They lead from the streetfront to the main house and from one building to the next across the property. Their primary function is to provide safe and stable routes of movement across what was, very often, damp and boggy ground, although Geraghty suggests they may also have helped to avoid the weeds (Geraghty, 1996, 68). However, they also signalled more subtle messages. The pathways guided visitors straight to the parts of the property they were ‘allowed’ to visit without any diversions. Pathways are most frequently encountered in Dublin and Cork and are less common in Waterford (Hurley, 1997b, 896). Presumably, this is because the natural ground level there was less saturated – there was less needed to construct pathways, or indeed add paved surfaces, to shore up the ground. Notably, there are no pathways at all in Coppergate (see Hall et al., 2015), again perhaps because the ground was less damp. Wallace believes that the pathways are, in many ways, more important than the buildings, stating that “the provision of access [via the pathways] through the properties was of paramount importance” (Wallace, 2010, 526). The pathways formed the principal element within a property around which the other features (including the buildings) were located. Implicit here is the assumption that people were allowed to move freely through the properties, but the very existence of formal pathways implies that movements were, at some level, controlled. Furthermore, the question of who was allowed to access the different parts of the property is still unanswered. Despite this, the pathways do indicate the most heavily used routes of movement. By extension, the paths should lead

172  The Households to the most common destinations within the yard, whether it is a building, pit, pen, or simply an area of open ground. At Building Level 10, Fishamble Street, for example, the pathways enable a linear series of movements from the front of the property to the back (Figure 7.2). In properties 3 and 4, the paths give access directly to the buildings behind the street-fronting house, while in properties 5 and 6, the pathways circumnavigate the stone surfaces laid out in the rear yards. Properties may also have had informal pathways or tracks which result from people’s natural movements towards the most direct routes across the landscape. Informal paths like these are, today, called desire lines, and they can form after as few as 15 traversals across a desired route (Myhill, 2004). Such casual routes of movement must also have been present across these streetscapes, particularly when we take into account the presence of unoccupied or derelict properties. These spaces appear empty archaeologically but are unlikely to have been abandoned spaces (Jervis et al., 2021). Molecular approaches, such as those proposed for crannog sites (Brown et al., 2021, 2022), may well provide new insights into these spaces. Drains, Pits, and Wells

One of the most frequent features in many of the Dublin sites are drains, found both inside and outside structures. The drains are similar in construction (usually built of planks and covered over with wattle matting), and, at Fishamble Street, Wallace identified these as soakaways: water channels to funnel excess water from the house to the exterior (Wallace, 2010, 539). These drains were not designed or used for water collection as there were no provisions made to place buckets or dig pits at the exit to collect the water, whose quality would have been questionable. It is possible that some of the drains in Dublin had other functions, perhaps for use in craftwork as suggested at Coppergate (Hall et al., 2004, 836), but the majority seem to have been part of a waste and surface water management strategy rather than anything else (Geraghty, 1996, 68; Kenward and Hall, 1995, 750). Increased drainage is necessary when there are significant paved areas or road surfaces to deal with water run-off from these introduced artificial surfaces (Dahlsten and Hall, 1999, 920). This is one of the unintended consequences which must be dealt with in perpetuity when making significant alterations to the existing environment. Pits are among the most common features in the properties, but they are rarely afforded detailed consideration. This is, as Davis (2021, 25) notes, a problem because it ignores the nuances of life in the town. Analysis of 52 pits from Waterford reveals that these were a mix of (structural) post-pits and cesspits (Tierney and Hannon, 1997, 888). These pits were opened, filled with cess and refuse, and emptied, probably for use as fertiliser, before being reused or back-filled with sediments. Lime was employed as a strategy to dampen down the smell from larger pits. Tierney and Hannon conclude that these fills must be considered to be reflective of the pits’ final use but not necessarily reflective of the entire lifecycle of the pit (ibid, 882).

Exploring the Properties  173 At Hammond Lane, on the north side of the Liffey, the Level 1 property contained four substantial pits (Figure 7.4 and Moriarty, 2010, 60–61). Three of these contained sandy clay, animal bone, and rubbish, measured between 1.14 and 1.8 m in length, and were just 0.2 m deep. The last pit was much bigger: it was 1.05 m deep, 1.2 m wide, and 1.33 m long; it contained five layers of cess and sealing materials. These pits are all from the same stratigraphic level, but they need not have been contemporary. As one of the rubbish pits filled up, it would have been closed over and a new pit opened. This variation in the types of pits found indicates a necessary variation in the management of these features. Whilst the shallow pits would be a simple feature to negotiate around in daily life, the 1.2-m-deep cess pit presents a different challenge in terms of awareness and safety for household members. So too would any pits functioning as water containers, which would have needed lids to prevent contamination by animals, insects, or other substances. In Coppergate, some lined pits may have functioned as water-storage units or even as shallow wells (Kenward and Hall, 1995, 748). Similar functions are likely in Irish contexts, although this must take into account fluctuations in localised water tables. A number of barrels were set into purpose-built pits in 12th- and 13th-century levels in Waterford, and these may have operated as cisterns (Scully and McCutcheon, 1997, 128). Finally, rubbish was not always carefully placed in pits for disposal: rubbish would have been scattered throughout the streets of the town as well as in properties and around houses. Middens – accumulations of refuse – are noted on every site, from small to larger concentrations. Harrison (2020, 366) suggests that rubbish and middens are intended as status symbols; this is just one of several possible functions of midden material (Needham and Spence, 1997, 84). Needham and Spence also point to the economic potential of middens as a resource or a stockpile. This is immortalised in a line in a series of late 9th-century texts called the Triads of Ireland. This particular reference – 117 – relates the three essential talents of a comb-maker: Three things that constitute a comb-maker: racing a hound in contending for a bone; straightening a ram’s horn by his breath, without fire; chanting upon a dunghill so that all antlers and bones and horns that are below come to the top. (Meyer, 1906, 17) This pen portrait is not particularly complementary towards the comb-maker but exemplifies the usefulness of the midden as a stockpile. Waste management was an ongoing and active concern. Environmental analysis of pits, bedding deposits, floor levels, and yard surfaces will reveal some of these management strategies (these ongoing analyses are well summarised by Wallace, 2016, 192–201) and how they changed over the lifetime of the house. Future work on archived material and new excavations should be targeted to more precisely answer questions on waste management and disposal practices.

174  The Households Figure 7.4 Composite drawing of 11th- and 12th-century houses and activity at Hammond Lane, Dublin. This image shows the pathway, rubbish deposits, and fence to the front, while there are several pits visible to the rear. Redrawn from Moriarty (2010), Figures 18–20 and 25–27.

Exploring the Properties  175 The Buildings The final constructed element is the buildings themselves. These are the constructed spaces which define and enclose the places within which their inhabitants lived their lives. Each of these spaces had a function, whether it was a home, a space for animals, or a non-residential space. We have seen that the dominant architecture is the post-and-wattle building, a piece of vernacular architecture which did not have specialist construction or design methods. It was the dominant house construction method in Ireland in the early medieval period, but as we have seen, there is evidence for alternative forms of architecture in the initial periods of occupation of Dublin as well as in the later 12th and 13th centuries. The importance of the built environment should not be understated. In the slightly later medieval English household, investment in possessions is less important than investment in land, animals, or, relevant here, buildings (Giles, 2014, 16). These initial building forms are the longhouse at South Great Georges Street and the sunken-floored structures from Temple Bar West, both appearing after the middle of the 9th century. The longhouse may have remained in situ for upwards of 100 years, but the sunken-floored structures were probably occupied for a shorter time, though long enough to have two distinct phases of occupation (Simpson, 1999, 14). By the late 9th century, the post-and-wattle Type 1 house is found in association with Type 5 structures – animal pens, storage sheds, and outbuildings. The Type 2 house does not appear in Temple Bar West until Level 8 (mid- to late 10th century) and appears only slightly earlier in Fishamble Street (mid-10th century). It is most commonly found in the mid- to late 11th-century layers in Fishamble Street and rarely occurs elsewhere within the walled town. It does, however, occur on all properties on Collins’s site at the Coombe and in some properties next door on Walsh’s site. It is relatively common in Waterford, occurring on four properties in Peter Street’s Level 1 alone and constituting one in three of all wattle buildings at this site (Scully, 1997, 37). It occurs on all properties on South Main Street in Cork (Ní Loingsigh, 2014b, 77). This suggests that, whatever its function, the Type 2 house was by the mid-11th century regarded as a necessary feature in the property. The Type 3 house is a particular Dublin type, found only in Fishamble Street and Temple Bar West and usually (on 10 out of 14 properties) accompanies another Type 1 house. It is the relationships between the Type 1, 2, 3, and 5 buildings that are of most interest here. The Type 1 house occupies the front of the property, and the ancillary buildings are sited behind it in the rear yard (Wallace, 2010, 525–526). Buildings in the rear yard are occasionally paired off on opposite sides of the properties with a pathway between them. They are more commonly found in a line, either along one side of the property or in the middle of the available ground (allowing access around either side of the buildings). These buildings rarely block the access to the very back ends of the properties. One might suggest that this land, located as it is at the very end of the property

176  The Households and farthest away from the main residential spaces, might be less useful or valuable space, but the fact that access to this land is never restricted implies that it was still considered necessary space which needed to be available at all times. On rare occasions, an ancillary building was located in front of the house, but the function and use of these buildings are unknown (see above). The doorways usually face into the yard (the rear doors of Type 1 houses) or towards the street (the front doors of Type 1 houses). The doorways of the ancillary buildings usually also face into the yard but do, on occasion, face towards other buildings. One example occurs at Peter Street, where a Type 1 house (PS3:L2) is accompanied by two Type 2 houses, PS3A:L2 and PS3B:L2 (Scully and McCutcheon, 1997, 65). Here, the doorways of the two Type 2 houses directly face each other. This is generally interpreted as evidence of a closer relationship between these buildings (Murray, 1983, 56). There are also rare instances where doorways have other orientations: for example, CP85/1, Christchurch Place, whose single doorway is located in the middle of the south side wall (facing downhill towards Property 2), or HS3/1 and HS1/1 from High Street, 1967–1972, whose doorways face directly towards each other across the boundary fence (Figure 6.2). A final example of this is the orientation of A10 and B4 at Werburgh Street, where A1’s side wall door aligns with B4’s doorway (Hayden, 2002, 64). Unfortunately, B4 and its successor, B5, were located right on the edge of the trench, so we cannot provide any more detail on the relationship between these buildings. The Type 5 structures deserve some consideration here also. Wallace’s original definition was that they were “outhouses of some sort” (Wallace, 1992b, 18), later amending this to include “toolsheds, farrowing pens, and privies” (Wallace, 2005, 830). I include large and small animal pens and enclosures, such as AQ, CA, and CX, found at Temple Bar West, within this category and also add dedicated workshops such as CG and CI in Temple Bar West. These do not appear to have functioned as residences; instead, they were semi-exposed shelters within which industrial or other craft work could take place. Based on these revised definitions, Type 5 structures have been identified in Wexford and Cork as well as on at least four more sites in Dublin. Curiously, there are no Type 5 buildings identified on any site in Waterford. None of these uses of Type 5 structures necessarily implies that they were passive structures; indeed, these all indicate a dedicated function which would have been used on a regular basis. Workshops such as CG and CI, Temple Bar West, indicate a very significant investment in the craft activity (or activities) taking place inside them. They would have needed to be used on a regular basis in order to justify that investment in space in the congested urban environment. Animals would have needed to be checked every day and fed and watered, even more so if they were breeding or had young present. Privies or latrines would also have been in very regular use. Storage units are the only possible units which may not have been required on a regular basis, but these would need to have been accessed at least seasonally to justify their space consumption. In addition to the Type 5 structures, unroofed space may well have

Exploring the Properties  177 been used as activity areas. One example is provided by Viking-Age re-enactors who prefer to work outside in the open air when undertaking productive activities as the light is better (Boyd, 2012, 78–79). They rarely use highly specialised equipment, and these working areas would leave little trace in the archaeological record beyond perhaps spreads of debris, and even these may not be recognised as such without careful recording. The exceptions to this are the yard areas such as those identified in property 6, Level 10 in Fishamble Street and property 5/6 in Level 12 in Temple Bar West. The Type 1 house represents the main buildings on the property, but during the 12th century, it began to be replaced by a new form of construction associated with a change in roof support structures. These houses – the Types 4b, 6, and 7 – also acted as the main buildings on the property, taking on the role of the Type 1 house as the location for the household’s everyday experiences. Where there is evidence for associated property boundaries, these houses were placed in line with each other within those existing limits, crucially cutting off access from the rearmost houses to the streetfront (Hurley, 2014a, 488). This converts portions of the property which had previously been unbuilt and multipurpose into built space. This is a formalisation of these spaces, announcing that these spaces are reserved for certain activities and functions only. Unfortunately, we cannot add much more than this as these buildings are only partially preserved and excavated. The vagaries of excavation trench location also mean that some structures – such as the Aungier Street sunken structure (Duffy, forthcoming, 20) and Waterford’s IN3:L10 stone house (McCutcheon and Hurley, 1997, 161–164) – were excavated in ‘blocks’ with no associated property boundaries. There would originally have been more of these styles of building in these urbanscapes, but the 18th-century penchant for basements meant that many were destroyed during the excavation of Victorian cellars (ibid). For now, we will have to content ourselves with noting that changes in construction style and building layouts within a property will have impacted upon how that property was used. Time and Place in the Town When considering the relationships around and between all these features, we must bear in mind the temporality of these landscapes. Not all the buildings were in use at the same time, and indeed not every property was occupied contemporaneously. Some buildings were carefully maintained and rebuilt over time. O others changed their function, moving from human occupation to animal use, to abandonment and back all within a few years (Reilly, forthcoming). This rapid pace of change could have led to an increased awareness of temporality in these urban places, that time moved on a different scale than in rural places. This leads us to consider the differences between space and place which are two closely connected but quite different concepts. Space is the ­physical setting around us, whereas place is the result of the “social process of valuing space” (Meskell and Preucel, 2007, 215). The creation of ‘place’ is the

178  The Households result of a person acknowledging a connection to a physical space and empowering that connection by building a personal and social value into that space (Rodman, 2003, 204–205). Easthope defines place as somewhere which “can be a very influential force in one’s life” and provides one with “a sense of belonging and comfort” (2004, 131–132). Easthope distinguishes between a conscious awareness of place – a sense of place – and an unselfconscious feeling of being comfortable in your place – rootedness (ibid, 130). Settlement patterns in both pre-Viking and Viking-Age Scandinavia and Ireland are characterised by an attentiveness to place with farmsteads, villages, and buildings occupied over several generations (e.g. Deer Park Farms, Co. Antrim; Lynn and McDowell, 2011a) and even up to several centuries (as at Borg in the Lofoten Islands; Munch et al., 2003). This created a strong sense of links to the past in both societies which new townspeople, whether of Irish or Viking descent, would have missed in the early years of living in these new urban spaces. The town was a new space – a new physical setting. It represents a new and very different way of living with no links to the past, no continuity of occupation, and no sense of its own (or its inhabitants’) history, at least for the first generations. While the town contained space in the form both of individual buildings and of the town itself, it had not yet acquired its own sense of place, that value attached by the repeated associations of people, events, and experience in a particular space. This sense of place and valuation of space is deeply embedded in most of the discourse around building and household lifespans and lifecycles. In this discourse, the house is viewed as a ‘living’ entity with its own lifecycle, often linked to prestigious household members or life events such as birth, marriage, or death. Lifecycles of buildings are regularly tied to ancestral origins (Waterson, 1997) or to contemporary generational changes (Carsten and Hugh-Jones, 1995). In Ireland, Smyth ties the first Neolithic houses to family lifecycles (Smyth, 2013, 307), while for O’Sullivan, the change in house shape from round to rectangular during the 8th and 9th centuries may reflect a trend towards smaller kin groups (O’Sullivan et al., 2021, 93). In both early medieval and Neolithic time frames, these connections are intimated via special deposits of artefacts at the opening or closing of house structures and to changes in family lifecycles. Similarly, in Scandinavia, the lifespans of longhouses have been linked with generational changes, and the structures were viewed as markers of family history, changing (or not) over the generations (e.g. at Borg) (Munch et al., 2003). The shifting patterns of both individual building footprints and the larger-scale village footprints of the earlier Iron Age village systems of Denmark have also been connected to the generational change within the households and communities (Beck, 2017; Gerritsen, 2003, 80; Holst, 2010). According to Allison (1999, 4), most people will live out their lives in houses that others have designed or built, whether they are close (living or deceased) relatives or associates. These houses will either take the form of an ancestral home or reflect the style of building preferred by the dominant social grouping. The Scandinavian longhouse and the early medieval roundhouses are

Exploring the Properties  179 ancestral homes, occupied over generations; although some of their structures may have changed, their long-term existence within a settlement area legitimated the household’s existence and control over the land. Indeed, Eriksen (2019, 119) suggests that the act of building over while incorporating material elements of the preceding longhouse is an act of inheritance and a statement of belonging to the preceding generations. These urban houses are different. There are few ancestral homes occupied over multiple generations. This does not appear to have been a matter of choice on the part of the occupants; environmental factors such as decay of building materials and rising ground levels meant that each house had to be rebuilt periodically. The houses provided a short-term link to the sense of place but simply did not stay standing for long enough to act as generational markers. A post-and-wattle house may have lasted as little as ten years, although most estimates put the lifespan around 20 to 25 years (Bourke, 1995; Geraghty, 1996; Hall et al., 1983). The longest period of occupation for a multiphase building is four phases (A9, Werburgh Street and PS4:L4-7, Peter Street). This is exceptional and it is more likely that a building would be reused over just two phases, potentially a period as short as 25 or 30 years, based on conservative estimates. Indeed, Stout (2017, 167) suggests that the lifespan of the Fishamble Street houses could be as short as nine years. The average life expectancy in this period is roughly 30 years (Meier and Graham-Campbell, 2007, 424). The typical person may have seen their home rebuilt three times from childhood to death, and the buildings themselves may have moved slightly forwards, backwards, or sideways. The houses were also in a state of almost constant repair, with the need to clean out hearths, re-lay floors, support or replace roofposts and door jambs, and repair walls and benchframes, and so on. Rubbish pits may have been filled up within a single season, or over a few years, and been closed and reopened regularly. Outbuildings were also replaced and could also change function periodically, from animal to human use or back again (O’Sullivan, 2008; Reilly, 2003, forthcoming). These processes of maintenance and replacement constantly reaffirmed the connections to the past of the household. Pathways, in contrast, were the most stable feature within the property, often remaining in existence over two or three building phases, and these may have formed the only short-term link to the immediate history of the household. The true constant in the property was its boundaries, defining and delimiting the extent of the property to all four sides but also defining the personal and private space of the household. The boundary fences, carefully maintained over multiple phases, provided a defined and unchanging limit to the household which could be traced back over generations. Inside these fences, their existence created an illusion of privacy which was crucial to allow each household to function with some sense of independence in the early years of the towns. We presume that these houses and properties were occupied by familial groups over subsequent generations. The social world which those familial

180  The Households groups – each generation of households – occupied valued their personal histories and their own connections to each other and to their place, as exemplified by the maintenance of the property boundaries, the documentary sources, and the curation of certain artefacts. The boundaries contained the social world of the household, and the existence of these limits allowed the household to form a mental link to the physical spaces which they enclosed. In forming that connection, the property becomes the link into the social and familial history of the household and provides the household with a sense of place, a past, present, and future, and a permanence in a way that the houses – which no longer have multigenerational lifecycles – cannot do in this transitory urban environment. While the boundary fences had a very practical function – delimiting space and ownership – they also represent a deliberate attempt to take possession of this land. Their maintenance allowed the townspeople to establish their own past and create a sense of belonging, a sense of place, in this new environment. A similar argument could be made for the encircling banks and walls around the towns. Through their monumentality and dominance of the skyline and impact on the ground, these walls create statements of possession and ownership, intent and permanency, but on a much larger scale. Conclusion We know that individual elements of the houses and the houses themselves were regularly replaced. So too were the constructed elements within the properties, the pits and drains, and the wattle panels in the fences or the paths. Perhaps the passage of time was, to some degree, measured by these repairs and replacements while other parts of the urbanscape remained stable – the shape and style of the buildings, the pathways within the properties, and the line of streets. This repetition of daily movements may have given the household some comfort in the knowledge that, although the elements which made up the property-scape would change and evolve, daily life would remain anchored in place, stabilised by the familiarity of home. The property is the point at which the houses, the household, and the town intersect. It is a vitally important space in the creation of urban life and an urban identity. The existence of defined property boundaries has regularly been touted as a key discovery of Viking period Ireland (e.g. Wallace, 1985, 1987a, 1987b, 1992a, 1992b, 2008, 2016); indeed, these boundaries did mark out limits of ownership and denote possession. More than this, they played a critical role in anchoring the town and the townspeople to their communal, household, and familial histories within the town. Key to this interpretation is the concept of place and belonging. Easthope argues that we create connections to a physical space through a mental process of attaching value to that space (Easthope, 2004, 129). These connections, in our Viking-Age towns, are created not so much by individual houses which, after all, were regularly replaced. Rather, the regular

Exploring the Properties  181 movements around each property were constant features in the daily life of the household, repeated again and again, day in and day out. Each property was a busy place, limited not only by their boundary fences but also by the constraints of the underlying topography, the natural slope of the ground, a water course or damp patch, even tree roots. Each movement had to negotiate around and between each of these constructed elements. These are enactments of ­habitus, the repetition of movements, deed and actions reinforcing the social dynamic (Bourdieu, 1977, 1990, 53–55). These movements represent the processes of attaching value to specific spaces, the property and its paths, its boundaries and its houses, to create that sense of place and belonging within this new urban environment.

Part 3

The Town

8

Urban Worlds and Urban Lives

Introduction We now turn our attention to the town itself. In Part 1, we saw how and when these housing sequences developed in each town and how these houses were constructed. In Part 2, we looked for evidence of the households themselves within and around the houses. In this final chapter, the town comes into focus as a space created and structured around these houses and households. One of the issues underlying the Viking-Age towns is a disconnect between the excavations within each town and across the different towns because of pressures of developer-led archaeology. In this chapter, I take the different themes which have emerged through these analyses and use them to construct a new narrative of the town in Viking-Age Ireland. The focus is primarily on Dublin simply because this is where the bulk of our evidence comes from, but the perspectives apply to all our Viking-Age towns. This narrative is built around a series of reconstruction drawings which help to structure our journey through this urban environment. These visualisations allow us to engage with and connect to the town as an entity – after all, a picture paints a thousand words. The illustrations frame a series of different perspectives of 11th to 12th Dublin, moving from the macroscale – the hinterland and the land outside the town – to the microscale of the house and the household itself. The Town and Its Hinterland Our first reconstruction drawing is Figure 8.1. This view of Dublin, c. 975, shows the town at the heart of a network of roads and fields, and the sea is nowhere in sight. The foreground shows the banks of the Liffey and the quays, while the meandering line of the Poddle leads the eye towards the Dublin mountains in the distance. This perspective highlights the local and immediate connections between the town and its hinterland. Much of those immediate hinterlands now underlie Dublin’s contemporary urban sprawl (Simms, 2020, 17), and it can be challenging to envision how close and interconnected that hinterland was. DOI: 10.4324/9781003039006-11

186  The Town

Figure 8.1 Dublin c. 975. Image of Viking Dublin from Dublin, One Thousand Years by Stephen Conlin published by The O’Brien Press Ltd, Dublin, © Copyright Stephen Conlin.

The town was supplied with its daily needs by the surrounding countryside, and connections with that hinterland were vital to the town’s survival (Bradley, 1988, 2009; Murphy, 2012, 4; Wallace, 1987a, 205). The existence of these connections is a reference point for virtually every piece of work on Ireland’s ­Viking-Age towns since the 1980s. Bradley was the first to explicitly theorise on the existence of a series of hinterlands associated with each of the Viking-Age towns and the nature of these connections (Bradley, 1988). This was in the same paper where he developed his argument for a Hiberno-Scandinavian material culture. Griffiths points out that, in general, studies of urban hinterlands have lagged behind studies of the medieval towns themselves (Griffiths, 2011, 154), meaning that Bradley was somewhat ahead of the curve. Bradley’s paper focused on the Dyflinarskiri, a term taken from the Icelandic sagas to refer to the area around Dublin (Bradley, 1988, 56). This area contains a series of historical references and archaeological finds which indicate the existence of a common material culture – the Hiberno-Scandinavian material culture – meaning these areas are more closely associated with the economic prosperity of Dublin (ibid, 61). Bradley’s assessment of the archaeology was based on antiquarian finds and information extrapolated from finds at Wood Quay (Wallace, 1987a). To this day, this archaeological record seems reasonably clear and comprises a series of silver hoards, burial markers, and placenames indicating varying degrees of Viking or Hiberno-Scandinavian influence. Useful surveys of this evidence appeared in Valante’s volume ­

Urban Worlds and Urban Lives  187 (Valante, 2008, 140–144), and Bradley himself undertook a reassessment of the Dublin evidence in 2009 (Bradley, 2009). Despite the amount of predevelopment excavation in Dublin, there are only a handful of new finds to add to Bradley’s original corpus of material. These include the Cherrywood site (Ó Néill, 1999, 2006), the Finglas burial (Sikora, 2010), and stray finds such as a decorated lead weight (Murray and Cheallacháin, 2021). There have been reassessments of the silver hoards (Nebiolini, 2020; Purcell and Sheehan, 2013) as well as the Rathdown slabs (Corlett, 2015). There have been fewer studies of historical material in relation to the hinterlands, but Boazman’s work on ecclesiastical landholdings in the southern part of Dublin County across the medieval period delves deeply into the situation at Cherrywood during the Viking Age (Boazman, 2016, 2019, 22–23). The vast majority of information on the hinterland actually derives from inside the towns, from the analysis of environmental remains. These specialist reports refer again and again to the inter-relationships between town and country, how items such as foodstuffs, raw materials, building supplies, or firewood were sourced outside the town and brought into the town through unspecified trading or exchange mechanisms (Davis, In prep; Geraghty, 1996; Lyons, 2014, 2015; Reilly, 2003, 2015a, b, forthcoming; Reilly et al., 2016). There are systemic issues with these reports; they are carried out on a site-bysite basis with little to no inter-site synthesis or comparison (Boyd and Stone, 2021; Davis, 2021, In prep). A greater issue is that there is no framework to tie such synthesis into; we have little to no understanding of the mechanisms of trade and exchange for these everyday materials (Horne, 2022, ‘Discussion and Conclusions’ section). Nor have we distinguished between the scale and character of the 9th- or 10th-century relationships versus the much greater scale required to provision Dublin by the 12th century. What we do know is that it was people who undertook to create and maintain those networks through building new communities which overlapped at many levels. These communities encompassed urban, suburban, and hinterland dwellers, those who lived inside the town boundaries, outside but close to those boundaries, and outside at a distance from the town. This does not equate to a simple urban/rural divide, either in the early decades of the town’s existence or later on. The townspeople needed to cultivate their relationships with the hinterland to supply these needs. Indeed, Hurley and McCutcheon notes that some residents of the towns probably “journeyed on a daily or periodic basis to the surrounding countryside, and certainly would not have been confined to an entirely urban existence” (Hurley and McCutcheon, 1997, 44). While long-distance or high-value networks of trade and exchange are very visible and have been extensively investigated in Ribe and Kaupang (Ashby et al., 2015; Baug, 2011; Croix et al., 2019), such investigations remain to be undertaken here. To return to the houses, however, the only hinterland (as opposed to fully rural) site with evidence for possible Viking-Age settlement is, of course, Cherrywood. This site is located just 15 km south of Dublin city centre in an area

188  The Town which was under the ownership of the Meic Turcaill family and subsequently donated to Christ Church Cathedral (Boazman, 2019; Ó Néill, 2006, 86). Given the combination of 11th- to 12th-century dates at Cherrywood, the resemblance of Structures 2 and 3 to Hiberno-Norse Type houses, and the historical references to Meic Turcaill ownership, we are reasonably confident that, by the 11th century, the occupants of this site were part of Dublin’s Hiberno-Scandinavian hinterland (Boazman, 2019; Boyd, 2015b, 338; Bradley, 2009, 48–49). The existence of these hinterlands around each Viking-Age town is not in doubt. Nor is there any doubt as to how intertwined the relationships between the town and that hinterland were. What we need to do now is move beyond discussions of presence or absence of particular categories of artefact or ecofacts or placenames and create new understandings of the dynamic nature of these relationships in the Viking Age. Such investigations must include the physical communication links which enabled these mechanisms of trade and exchanges – the roads and rivers which connected the towns to their hinterlands. Connections and Flows We see those roads and rivers snaking through Conlin’s painting, evoking the process and experience of journeying through this landscape. The Liffey is in the foreground, while the Poddle leads away from the town towards the mountains. These rivers enabled both the threats of the initial raiding campaigns (Ó Corráin, 1998, 325) and the growth and potential of the handful of towns which developed alongside them (Wallace, 1992a, 37). They functioned to enable movements of people, objects, and information and are of equal importance to roads in the Viking Age (Jarman, 2021, 80–84). The Rivers

As Edgeworth points out, rivers have “the potential to re-shape landscapes and our understanding of it” (Edgeworth, 2011, 134). Rivers are an ‘entanglement’ and ‘intertwining’ of natural and cultural forces and resources, points of engagement, and crossing points. Water itself is in constant flow, moving forwards and backwards, changing the landscape by its own actions and being changed by human interventions with rivers (ibid, 25–27). The first indications of this reshaping in our towns are the intentional processes of land reclamation and stabilisation discussed in Chapter 2. The nature of Dublin’s reclamation processes are, in the 9th and 10th century, gradual. They take a little at a time from the edges of the riverbed to create small stretches of dryer land. The engagement with Cork’s River Lee is very different. Here, the artificial islands were constructed with a deliberate intention to impact on the flow of the river (see Chapter 7). Such artificial islands – crannogs – are common in early medieval Ireland. There are more than 1200 early medieval examples across the north and west of the country (O’Sullivan et al., 2021, 58). These are almost

Urban Worlds and Urban Lives  189 always located on lakes and only very occasionally occur on rivers leading into or out of those lakes. More to the point, the entire county of Cork, the largest county in Ireland, has only four recorded crannog sites (Historic Environments Viewer, National Monuments Service). Against this backdrop, the creation of the South Island in the midst of the Lee is quite unexpected. The Poddle and the Liffey which shaped 9th-century Dublin may have been perceived very differently in the minds of those who lived there. The Liffey connects Dublin to the sea. It is tidal as far as Chapelizod where the extended grave fields of Kilmainham and Islandbridge are located (Simms, 2020, 21). In the 9th century, the Liffey must have been closely associated with both the threats and potential posed by these new arrivals. The role of the rivers can take on further significance if we consider how they may be understood as liminal spaces, separating the living from the dead (Hadley and Richards, 2021, 137–138; Lund, 2005, 2008; Raffield, 2014). In this context, the axehead found in the gravels of the Black Pool (see Chapter 2) becomes even more important. It marks the Black Pool as ‘Viking’ territory and makes a very deliberate statement of both political and religious intent here. Over time, the association of the river will also have changed, as memories of earlier raids from the sea faded. The balance of perceptions of the Liffey may have shifted from threat and danger to its potential as an international connection. In contrast, the Poddle is a smaller and more local river. It links Dublin to the foothills of the Dublin mountains rather than the sea. The Poddle provided essential supplies to the town in its own right as a source of drinking water, food, and energy and as a power supply for mills. It was a productive river, and its capabilities are well documented in the 12th century (Clarke, 2002, 9). It also provided essential connections from the town to the hinterland, providing a two-way means of transport for people, goods, and information. This may have led to a very different engagement with and conceptualisation of the Poddle in comparison with the Liffey. Crossing the River

At a different scale, rivers separate and connect the two sides of the banks and different places along the river, from its source to its mouth. This is evoked in Figure 8.2, a reconstruction showing a view from the north bank of the river, the fording place, and the town huddled on the south shore of the Liffey. The presence of a single figure exiting the ford gives a sense of the scale of this crossing place. This ford is Átha Cliath, the ford of the hurdles, whose name is still preserved in Baile Átha Cliath, Dublin’s Irish name (Clarke, 2002, 1). The exact location of this ford is still unknown, but it was at most half a metre deep; you would still get wet feet crossing here (Moriarty, 2010, 3). This formalised the official crossing point of the Liffey, but there may also have been other, less official crossings, especially if you had your own boat. This may also have allowed for transgressing the norms – with your own boat, you could cross the river where and how you wanted.

190  The Town

Figure 8.2 The Ford of the Hurdles, Dublin, c. 1050. Reconstruction drawing © Johnny Ryan for Dublin City Council.

Fords should be considered as integral parts of Ireland’s early medieval travel networks (Doran, 2004, 64–65). They mark the intersections of roads and rivers. They are natural nodes of communication where that two-way processes of communication and movement intersect (both in the physical and symbolic worlds; Lund, 2005, 119). Fords were often formalized as bridges during the medieval period (Doran, 2004, 68), indicating their ongoing importance in the landscape. The earliest constructed bridge in Ireland is a timber bridge in Bray, dating to the 11th century (O’Sullivan and Downey, 2015b, 38), and the first stone bridge across the Liffey was documented in 1112 (Clarke, 2002, 5). The interactions between roadways and rivers are particularly important in the Viking world, given that boats were as natural a means of travel for ‘Vikings’ as travelling by foot, horse, or cart (Hadley and Richards, 2021, 136–140). The Roads

If travelling by foot, horse, or cart in the Viking Age, you would have traversed one of a number of different types of road as we saw in Chapters 2 and 3. While we have a small amount of archaeological evidence for roads (O’Sullivan et al., 2021, 193–194), the majority of what we know about Ireland’s early medieval roads comes from documentary sources (Doherty, 2015; Doran, 2004; O’Keeffe, 2001; O’Sullivan and Downey, 2015a; O Lochlainn, 1940). According to these texts, there were five different types of roads ranging in importance from highways to cow-tracks (Doherty, 2015, 25). Their upkeep and

Urban Worlds and Urban Lives  191 maintenance were the responsibility of both individuals and communities (Kelly, 1997, 391). Dublin is located at the nexus of the five highways of early medieval Ireland, although Doherty suggests a degree of caution in accepting 10th- or 11th-century texts as accurate reflections of pre-10th-century reality (ibid; Doherty, 2015, 26). Of the five types of roads, the togher – a wooden trackway – is the least important; nonetheless, it is the road which is most visible archaeologically. This is because toghers were often constructed across peatbogs and wetlands, inadvertently leading to their preservation and inclusion in the archaeological record. Several well-preserved sections of early medieval wooden trackways have been excavated (e.g. at Ballinderry 2, Co. Offaly and Lemanaghan Bog), and these are closely associated with ecclesiastical sites, often interpreted as pilgrim routes (O’Sullivan et al., 2021, 194). On this basis, it is probable that similar trackways were associated with the monastic enclosure of 9th-century Dublin or the church of St Michael le Pole. At the very least, wooden trackways would have been a regular feature in the wet and reclaimed landscape of Cork. Indeed, this is demonstrated by the presence of trackways and bridges connecting the reclaimed islets of land at 36–39 South Main Street (Cleary, 2014b). In Dublin, Walsh’s two sections of roadway at Chancery Lane and the Coombe represent the only examples of excavated pre-Norman roadways (see Chapter 2). These are both located outside the town walls and are very different in nature from the togher. These are metalled surfaces, measuring up to 2.35 m wide (Walsh, 2009, 15–16). These are most likely to be examples of a slige or a ród, a main road or a highway (Doherty, 2015, 25–27). Their composition and size are likely to be representative of other more substantial roadways across Ireland. The purpose of a road is to accommodate movement, to connect place A to place B. Roads move through unbuilt space, through countryside. Edgeworth suggests that roads could be conceptualised as ‘flows’ through the landscape in a similar fashion to rivers (Edgeworth, 2011, 108). The distribution of silver hoards hints at these flows (Purcell and Sheehan, 2013; Sheehan, 2000, 2004), but there is scope for a much more nuanced interpretation of mobility here, of people, goods, and ideas. Equally important are the absences and gaps in these landscapes of mobility. The five highways connect the east of the country to the west and the north but do not extend far enough south to reach Waterford or Cork. The easiest means of travel from Dublin to Waterford was, and still is, along the River Barrow, while the mountains which traverse north Cork mean that Cork is best accessed by coastal roads or, indeed, by sea. Boundaries to the Town The nature of a boundary is to enclose, to set one thing apart from another, to provide a space to mark out difference (Williams, 2006, 186). These boundaries vary in scale from macroscale – the banks or walls around the town, the gates,

192  The Town and the street – to microscale boundaries – the doors, paths, and fences in and around individual homes. From the perspective seen in Figure 8.2, the boundary around the town is very clear. At their most basic level, these banks and walls create a break between the people who lived inside and those who lived outside the walls. These represent a very physical series of structural elements and boundaries which contained and retained the world of the town (Reynolds, 2009, 427). These enclosing walls would have dominated the low-rise skylines of 12th-century Dublin and Waterford, encircling the town and its people and, conversely, highlighting those outside its boundaries. Outside the Walls

We saw in Chapter 3 the development of 12th-century suburban housing at the Coombe and Aungier Street in Dublin and at Barronstrand Street in Waterford. These are new housing sequences which are consciously located at a distance from the town. This suburban development represents a different engagement with the town and its boundaries. Their establishment may have been a choice to locate near but not within the town. This extramural location may have given suburban dwellers some freedoms in contrast to their urban neighbours. The choice to live outside the town could reflect the social and familial connections of these households; perhaps they were part of networks established and maintained outside the town rather than the cosmopolitan urban networks. At the Coombe, the houses are adjacent to the Commons Water, a stream, and the Slighe Dála roadway (Collins and Weldon, 2019; Walsh, 2012). These are shown in Figure 3.1, where Conor McHale’s drawing illustrates the closeknit nature of life here at the Coombe. These are reasonably spacious properties, with long front and back properties. In contrast, the house at Hammond Lane is squeezed into the last corner of habitable space beside the Liffey and was regularly flooded (Moriarty, 2010). Yet this corner of land was reclaimed and used to construct a home. There must have been a significant advantage to this choice of location in order for it to be a viable home. Figure 3.1 emphasises the communication routes here, the roadway and the stream, and the potential which easy access to these routes may have offered to those living here. There are other factors at play here, one of which is the availability of fresh, running water outside the town walls, again wonderfully illustrated in Figure 3.1. Certain crafts or productive activities which required a high water input (e.g. brewing, dying, and tanning) could have been deliberately located in the suburbs beside these water supplies (Arndt, 2020, 215). The wider availability of other resources outside the town must also have been important, including the limestone quarries (recently identified by Hayden at Chancery Lane), accessible farmland, food-based resources, walls, woodlands, rabbit warrens, birds’ nests, orchards, and arable fields. Murphy suggests that Oxmantown – Dublin’s northern suburb – had a “distinct horticultural aspect” containing gardens and orchards (Murphy, 2012, 19). Access to and control of these resources was formalised in 13th- and 14th-century charters and grants from

Urban Worlds and Urban Lives  193 the English crown, but informal agreements around exploiting these resources would have existed much earlier. Indeed, Murphy and Potterton conclude by noting that while the year 1170 sticks out as a ‘watershed’ moment in historical sources, the underlying landscape narrative is one of continuity rather than change (Potterton and Murphy, 2010, 492). That continuity is most visible in terms of ecclesiastical continuity (Potterton and Murphy, 2010, 492–494). The temptation is to reduce explanations for suburban growth to economic factors, easier access to raw materials, transportation resources, or markets, but this is too simplistic. It also ignores the fact that Dublin’s suburban settlements are geographically closer to neighbouring ecclesiastical sites rather than to the walled town itself. Perhaps, it is the relationships between churches and suburban development which we should be more closely interrogating in the 11th century. Certainly, the relationships between the newly established settlement on Cork’s South Island and Saint Finbarre’s monastery are issues which concern Clarke and Ní Laoi in 11th-century Cork (Clarke and Ní Laoi, forthcoming). By 1230, ecclesiastical communities such as those at Saint Thomas Abbey, just to the northwest of the Coombe, were playing an active role as “agents of organized urban expansion” (Simms, 2020, 54), accepting both physical land grants and rents. We also know that significant tracts of lands in more distant suburbs such as Cherrywood were transferred from families with Old Norse–derived names, such as Meic Turcaill, to the church (Boazman, 2019; Potterton and Murphy, 2010, 493). This again underlines the role of the church in acquiring and managing estates during and after the 12th century. Two connected points arise here. The first is the need to consider when such practices of land transfer begin and at what scale this could occur. The second is to consider that if families and institutions possessed lands outside the walls of the town, did they also possess lands inside the town? This has implications for the patterns of land ownership and tenure within the town. Whether or not we could investigate such questions using the archaeological record, however, is a difficult one; in this instance, we may have to defer to the historical record. Inside the Walls

In the town, there are breaks in the walls which allowed entry into and exit from the town through formal gates and access routes. The gates indicate routes of travel, connecting the east and west of the city along the line of the Slighe Mhór while the southern gate led towards the Commons Water and the Slighe Dála. These gates probably also hosted market spaces and acted as gathering points and public spaces (Lydon, 2003, 64). To travel from north to south, one would have used the fords, and later bridges, over the Liffey and the Poddle. There may also have been informal ways to enter the town, such as by crossing the river by boat, away from the ford, or even through scaling the wall. We can further consider this in terms of what sort of objects, activities, and behaviours are permitted, encouraged, or disallowed on either side of the walls.

194  The Town Once inside the walls of the town, the road underfoot transforms into something new; it changes context and becomes a street. The key difference between a road and a street is their context. A road runs through unbuilt spaces like forests, countryside, bogs, or mountains accommodating movement; it connects places. A street must have buildings, preferably on both sides. While streets enable movement, movement is not the function of a street. Rather, a street functions by creating spaces which enable people to live and work on them (Department for Transport, 2007, 15–16). Their role in accommodating movement is less important than their role in shaping the lives of those who occupy and utilise them (National Association of City Transportation Officials, 2013). Streets are exclusively urban phenomena which define the layout and network of the towns both physically and socially. They are transitional zones from which local networks negotiate access to wider regional networks. The street is where the small, private scales of individual households and the wider scales of local neighbourhoods and communities meet. In Dublin, these streets meander through the topography of the landscape, rising and falling with the natural contours of the land around Christchurch and Wood Quay (Simms, 2020, 20). Dublin’s irregular streets preserve some element of the pre-existing highways of early medieval Ireland in the alignment of High Street and Dame Street (ibid, 26). Cork is quite different as the alignments of houses at South Main Street indicate that housing and habitation developed around this very flat north–south transit across the river (Hurley, 1998, 172–175). Waterford also preserves a reasonably flat topography, with a gentle slope of just a couple of metres across the Viking town (Map 3.2; see also Hurley et al., 1997, 7). The regularised street pattern radiates out from Reginald’s Tower at the tip of the triangle and smaller lanes and alleys at angles to these three main streets. An intriguing way to conceptualise streets is as flows, as suggested by Edgeworth (2011, 110). These flows of people can be slow or fast, dense or a trickle. These flows are regulated by gates which block or permit flows. The insertion of stairs, alleys, or tunnels creates and allows changing and evolving routes. Using this perspective, Edgeworth suggests visualising the sides of the street as banks, which regulate those flows and enable the movement of people, objects, knowledge, and behaviours through the town. In this context, the functions of buildings on each street impact on and adapt to the flows through the town. Throughout the day and night, flows of people to, from, and around the town varied depending on their destinations. These places of flow can be dangerous; fatal accidents often occurred in streets and highways (Hanawalt, 1986, 26). Even without cars, streets are busy, densely occupied places. Larceny and theft, which were common and profitable ways to supplement household income, were carried out by members of all levels of society (Hanawalt, 1986, 119). Within the town, there is also the potential for increased activity during the night as well as the day – a night-time economy. Hanawalt note that adolescents were regularly found to be enjoying the freedom of urban life, often resulting in behaviour that was less than respectable (Hanawalt, 1993, 114–120).

Urban Worlds and Urban Lives  195 Gilchrist (2012, 151) reminds us that play was still an important socialisation mechanism after childhood, noting the popularity of board and dice games. These adult gaming pursuits were often carried out in taverns, located in people’s homes. These were popular social venues, as were the churches, markets, streets, and village greens (Hanawalt, 1986, 26–29). The boundary fences around properties also impact on those flows, corralling movements into and around these household boundaries. The fences denote the edges of properties, the places where the busy street and the private property collide. The archaeological footprint of these fences is flimsy, a few posts and strands of wattles, but their physical footprint remained in place for centuries as evidenced by comparison of excavated boundaries and medieval and post-medieval maps (Simpson, 2000; Wallace, 1987b). In Chapters 2 and 3, we saw how these boundaries, established at the very outset of occupation, are crucial to the town. They physically create the spaces within which each household creates and maintains its own existence. In Ribe, the properties are interpreted as public spaces (Croix, 2020b, 117). They are locations where activities occur, where people interact with each other, and they are conceived of as open ground. In Ireland, we have always considered the constant and unchanging nature of the property boundaries as the most important part of the story, but perhaps we put too much emphasis on the divisive nature of these boundaries. Perhaps we should, instead, conceive of the boundaries as being an essential component of the urban street which enables the street to function as a space to live. The boundaries, rather than dividing, create distinct spaces which allow the private microscale of the individual households and the wider macroscale of the community to coexist along this shared street and street community. The nature of this is illustrated in Figure 8.3, which shows Fishamble Street as an open and busy streetfront, connecting and enabling the life of the street. Here, the people take centre stage, their activities and exchanges flowing around the street, emphasising the connections and interactions between them. Managing the Town Figure 8.3 also brings up some of the new issues that would have emerged in the new urban environment. These include safety issues such as water and waste management, sanitation, and fire control. Issues with social and antisocial behaviours also must have arisen, including noise pollution, levels of trust and friendliness of neighbours, and messiness. Within individual property boundaries, we presume that it is the responsibility of the householder to undertake the constant repairs and replacements required within their own property. On other occasions, such as at the Coombe, there may have been landlord figures involved (see Chapter 3). Large infrastructural developments such as the town walls, the mint, or the Long Stone (see Chapter 3) are usually used as evidence of royal or centralised authority, particularly as they are easily correlated with historical references to their construction, upkeep, and maintenance

196  The Town

Figure 8.3 Artist’s impression of life on Fishamble Street, Dublin in the Viking Age. Image © Dublinia – Dublin and the Viking World – Artist Steve Doogan.

(Clarke, 2002). In contrast, we know little about the management and governance of communal spaces and areas of open ground, market stalls, waste disposal, or water management prior to the Norman arrival. Geltner (2019) identifies this maintenance as a key feature of the medieval urban community, essential to safeguarding the health of the urban population. Potentially, these were communal functions in the early years of town life, particularly given that, according to early Irish legal texts, tasks such as road clearing were communal tasks (Doherty, 2015, 24). As urban populations grew and became more densely aggregated, personal responsibility for communal spaces may have become harder to enforce. Over time, these came under the authority of central administration, particularly in the post-Norman period and especially once their revenue-generating potential, through either direct taxation or service charges, became obvious. The earliest reference to direct property taxation is, of course, that made in 989, when the High King of ­Ireland Máel Sechnaill imposed a tax of one ounce on each garrda – yard – in Dublin (Downham, 2008, 57; Mac Niocaill & Hennessy, 2008; Wallace, 2000, 264). Wallace has long identified the property boundaries as “the very essence of town life” (Wallace, 2000, 263), arguing that understanding the boundaries is crucial to understanding how the people of the Viking towns related to each other (e.g. Wallace, 1985, 113; Wallace, 1987b, 277). Elsewhere, I have suggested that the initial setting out of these boundaries at Temple Bar West was a communal endeavour (Boyd, 2014, 19). At what point does this communal arrangement end and more formal arrangements take over? We could suggest

Urban Worlds and Urban Lives  197 with the regularised boundaries of Level 3, Fishamble Street, in the mid-10th century, but the first property boundaries at High Street and Winetavern Street (in the late 10th century) are irregular in form (Figure 7.2). Indeed, they bear some resemblance to the earliest boundaries at Temple Bar West (Figure 2.3). This perhaps speaks to the continuation of localised or communal boundary arrangements in these initial property establishment phases during the 9th and 10th centuries. The Urban Habitat Habitats – the places where an organism is found naturally (Byrne and Houston, 2020, 47; Callow, 1999, 57) – exist in dynamic relationships with themselves which have short- and long-term consequences for its populations (Gerhart et al., 2004). Habitats are adaptive, constantly reacting to changes driven by biological and ecological agents – human or otherwise. And this first town environment was indeed one of change; it represented a rapidly changing urban habitat. Urban habitats can represent a vastly different type of environment, modified constantly by the actions of those who inhabit them (Byrne and Houston, 2020, 49–50). They usually have greater population and building densities, artificial divisions, and separations (boundary fences, structures, drains, and walls) and often an increase in hard, inorganic surfaces at the expense of green landscapes (Wheater, 2011, 239). However, not all of these are true for our early towns. While large tracts of land were converted to built space, it was low-­ density and the construction materials are natural – timber, wattle, clay, stone, shells, and so on. They were augmented by tree cover (Geraghty, 1996; Lyons, 2014, 2015; Reilly et al., 2016), which represents another essential part of the urban habitat (Dawe, 2011; Gaston and Gaston, 2011). This means that although the congested streets look different from farmsteads, their composition is much the same – locally sourced, organic, sustainable materials. These streets and houses incorporated a great variety of habitats, exposed to us in great detail by the environmental analyses of Davis (In prep; Davis and Kourela, 2022), Geraghty (1996), Lyons (2014, 2015), Mitchell (1987), and Reilly (2003, 2012, 2015a, b, forthcoming, 2016). The houses are home to humans, of course, but also to a great many other populations. The structural elements – foundations, walls, roof, and floors – were colonised by animal, bird, and insect populations as well as plants and even trees. Many of these species would have been beyond the notice of the inhabitants – until you felt the effects of their bites and scratches, that is. Outside the house, within the property, rubbish and cess pits provide subterranean habitats which could be left open or closed over. The post-and-wattle fences were home to vermin, insects, and weeds, while deposits of dung and detritus on the ground were commonplace. Caches of food and raw materials were stored in buckets, barrels, and bags and inside buildings, presenting opportunities for those who could access them.

198  The Town Outside the houses, there were populations of wild animals, roaming freely around the town (McCormick, 1997; McCormick and Murray, 2007; Wallace, 2016). This includes vermin, dogs and cats, and birds and insects. Drains and puddles, yard surfaces, pathways and pavements, and vegetation in the form of opportunistic trees and weeds or tended kitchen gardens also create habitat opportunities within the property. There are also intentionally created animal habitats – the pens, byres, and coops for the pigs, dogs, chickens, and other urban fauna. Abandoned, burnt, or empty properties were colonised by opportunists as extra stabling for animals (Reilly, forthcoming), indicating how structures and properties could change from human to animal habitats and back again. The urbanscape also featured a range of water-based habitats, from rivers to streams, puddles, drains, and standing water. The mudflats on the riverside were revealed and hidden by the tides, creating regular opportunities to assess and possess their resources – seaweed, shellfish, and saltwater. Houses with direct access to the river, as suggested at Fishamble Street (Wallace, 1985, 112), may have had similar advantages; they could literally fish for their supper. We see these opportunities formalised (and controlled) in the late 12th century when the monks of St. Mary’s were granted fishing rights on the north side of the Liffey (Moriarty, 2010, 7), suggesting that, prior to this, there was freer access to these resources. Freshwater habitats include running water sources, supplies of stored water, and bodies of standing water. Each of these habitats represented different potentials for engagement with the wider urban environment. The river may also have allowed a household to earn extra income in other ways. One such avenue could be ferrying others across the water, while another option may have been selling marine resources collected on your patch of shore. According to Kelly, the economic potential of access to a ‘productive rock’ – a stretch of coast where one could collect shellfish and seaweed – increases the value of a holding by three cows (Kelly, 1988, 107). Thus, access to these wetland habitats may also have increased a household’s economic potential. The biggest change to the urban landscape between the 9th and 12th centuries is the addition of stone as a building material. Although stone construction is not common in domestic architecture until after the 13th century in Dublin (Simpson, 2011, 76), it is probable that elements of the 12th-century Christchurch Cathedral may have featured stone, rather than timber, construction (ibid, 74). However, it is the construction of the first stone wall in 1100 which represents a major habitat change. The stone wall replaced the previous organic enclosures (built of clay, timber, wattle banks, and ditches with standing water); it also altered the habitats of the animal, plant, and insect populations of the organic enclosure features. While stone walls do naturally accumulate their own communities of plants and animals (Wheater, 2011, 240), the construction of the wall represented a major shift in its environment. Measuring upwards of 4 m in height (Dublin City Council, 2004, 6), it also impacted the experiences of humans who lived close by. It would have cast a

Urban Worlds and Urban Lives  199 significant shadow, altering localised lighting conditions and impacting ground temperatures and saturation levels of its microclimate (Wheater, 2011, 244). Expanses of open and unbuilt land were also common, but these do not represent empty lands. Jervis and colleagues consider such tracts of land as productive spaces, which, while devoid of structures, were anything but devoid of meaning (Jervis et al., 2021, 224). These expanses fulfilled multiple functions: crop processing, craft working, and market spaces or for grazing or arable purposes. Indeed, we see this within the walls of Dublin where unbuilt land to the west of Christchurch Place and High Street is, apparently, under cultivation at this time (Coughlan, 2000, 208). In fact, a right of grazing on open ground in the city is one of the benefits enjoyed by those who received the freedom of Dublin (Simms, 2020, 51), a right which members of U2 exercised in 2000 when they were granted the freedom of the city (O’Donnell, O., 2000). In the Viking Age, open ground could also have acted as collection points for objects heading into or leaving the town: particularly bulky goods such as building materials, foodstuffs, raw materials for crafts, or finished objects entering into trading networks. We have already noted that open ground near the gates functioned as market spaces. An obvious follow-on for Dublin is that some of these spaces may have been used for slave markets and slave corrals, although confirming this would be archaeologically difficult (Fontaine, 2017, 478). Other large areas of open ground include graveyards which represent a very specific habitat (Siebe et al., 2018, 358). Graveyards contribute to increasing biodiversity in urban settings through their unbuilt nature but equally represent a landuse function which fundamentally alters the soil composition of the burial ground – the necrosol – through the decomposition of buried human remains (Asare et al., 2020; Pickering et al., 2018; Wilson et al., 2007). All these spaces required different degrees of management and maintenance, precisely because of the organic nature and materiality of this particular urban habitat. Fletcher (2010, 476–477) argues for a major change in our comprehension of and engagement with the materiality of urbanism, the magnitude of the urban environment, and the temporality of urban places, from then to now. He talks of the ‘friction of daily life’ (ibid), the nasty corner tables or door handles which take us by surprise every day but which we accept as the consequence of our less-than-ideal materiality of our homes. Similarly, we must be aware of those consequences in the past: the houses that are squashed and contorted to fit into the existing property boundaries, the potential for vermin to attack your food supplies, or the drainage problems faced by those who lived on Fishamble Street. Indeed, this also applies to the need for ongoing repair or replacement of buildings precisely because of their materiality, their rapidly decaying wooden structures. These are the realities of daily life, which support but also impact upon and stress those who encounter them, whether today (those table corners) or a thousand years ago (all those drainage channels). Managing those habitats and spaces, and actions and reactions to them, was an active and ongoing concern for their inhabitants.

200  The Town Intersections of Space If we move our attention closer to the house, we encounter the open ground in front of the house. Figure 8.3 highlights the potential of these spaces and emphasises how the spaces outside the house were integral parts of the daily life of the household. In Chapter 7, we discussed the appearance of these spaces, but here I’d like to consider how these spaces may have functioned as parts of the street and urban community. To do this, I want to turn to Pompeii, where Van Nes employed the principle of constitutedness to explore interactions between people at this street level (Van Nes, 2014, 285). This principle proposes that streets which are constituted have a high degree of visual and physical permeability (Hillier and Hanson, 1984, 105). On these streets, building entrances face directly onto the street and towards each other. It is easy to move from the house to the street and from the street to the house, and we see this in operation at Fishamble Street and Werburgh Street (see Figures 7.1 and 7.2). Constituted streets are generally perceived as more open, ‘safer’ spaces, as there is little distance between the house and the street. A building’s occupants will step from the private ‘home’ sphere straight into the public ‘street’ sphere, creating this ‘safer’ space. These spaces can have a greater air of community and liveliness (Van Nes, 2014, 285). The reverse is an unconstituted street – where there are fewer entrances to buildings and so fewer people will move directly from the private into the public space. These unconstituted streets are perceived as ‘silent streets’ (Van Nes, 2014, 285) with lower levels of community surveillance. They are less permeable spaces, with less visibility and, consequently, greater potential for acts of public misdemeanour or misbehaviour. As all our streets have multiple doorways facing onto them (see Figure 8.3), this immediately suggests that these are all constituted spaces, where the potential for public surveillance and oversight creates more communal and neighbourly spaces. We must also consider that individual properties may have a higher or lower degree of permeability and visibility, based on the needs of individual households. Some properties did have larger front-yard areas than others. This open space could have been manipulated to create an unconstituted or unsurveilled space here, by building a fence or even by erecting a frontyard building. Modern public space tends to be strongly male-dominated (Gottdiener et al., 2015, 36–37), whereas these more communal spaces may have had stronger female presences. Certainly, Hanawalt observed that communal gathering places such as wells, village ponds, and neighbours’ houses were more commonly recorded as locations of accidents or death for women than men (Hanawalt, 1986, 145). Gilchrist (2012, 53–55) notes that 13th-century towns could have had significantly larger populations of young men than young women. We can contrast these streets with the (admittedly slightly later) streets of London which provided “vast temptations” for the young (Hanawalt, 1993, 115). The degree of surveillance on these strongly constituted streets may have

Urban Worlds and Urban Lives  201 meant that there were fewer chances for misbehaviour, at least in some parts of the town.

The Urban Identity It is this idea of more localised communities which I’d like to turn to now. Throughout this chapter, our perspective has shifted from the macroscale of the hinterland, the rivers, and roads, through to the town as a habitat and as a place to be managed, before coming to rest on the microscale of the street and its individual properties. This represents quite a contrast to life in the countryside in 9th- to 12th-century Ireland. There, each household’s social network was relatively small – family members, neighbours, and occasional visitors – and most people stayed close to home (Kelly, 1988, 4–5). There were fewer opportunities for outside influences to affect society, and change happened slowly. Urban life existed on a much greater scale; quite simply, there were more people in closer proximity to each other in the streets of the towns than in farmsteads dispersed across the countryside. The towns were filled with the strange and the exotic. There were traders, sailors, warriors, and visitors; different languages; newly imported objects; foods and raw materials; and new ideas. They represent a coming together of different people, backgrounds, and cultures. These Viking-Age towns are not traditionally viewed as immigrant communities, but this presents one way to understand their composition. The town consisted of newly established urban households which may have come from the local countryside or from much further afield (Boyd, 2014). Towns relied on the constant influx of new people to maintain the scale of this urban life (Hanawalt, 1993, 23). Burmeister (2000, 541–542) argues that when migrant groups encounter each other in these new places, the result is a merging of their individual materialities and habitus. The traits which are maintained are either those that are highly functional and practical or those of the dominant social group. This creates a series of hybrid identities, incorporating a mix of social and cultural traits and practices, which are expressed to different degrees depending on whether the space is a public or a private one (Burmeister, 2017, 61). In this case, the migrant environment is the Viking-Age town. The internal domain is where the traditional cultural traits of the ‘home’ community are displayed – inside the safe, home space belonging to each household. The external domain – the outside appearance of the building and property – will adapt to the new environment, reacting to the prevailing social, economic, and climatic conditions of these new places. The external domain is Burmeister’s ‘contact zone’ where the two groups meet (ibid). This has two impacts. The first is the visible curation of a standard building style across the town representing that external domain. This building style is one which incorporates the rectangular form and local building practices – the

202  The Town post-and-wattle construction. Together, these represent a compromise of construction styles and techniques which everyone is familiar with and which is suitable for the restricted spaces available in the urban environment. These early urban households make a definite statement of their limits and emphasise their relative independence from their neighbours by erecting boundary fences. These properties rapidly develop into long rectangular properties which represent the most economic use of space within the enclosed area. Although there is some variation from property to property, each property presents essentially the same face to the world. The main house is set at right angles to the street and approached by a short pathway through the front yard. The front yard was mostly open space or contained negative archaeological features such as pits; visually, it was an unobstructed space. This is Burmeister’s external domain, the streetscape panorama which is accepted, and replicated, across the urbanscape. This community feeling is enhanced by the relative safety of these streets, with a high degree of intervisibility from street to house and the degree of constitutedness creating open and safer public spaces in the town. Inside the property, in Burmeister’s internal domain, much more variation in layout becomes apparent in these more private spaces. While the rear yards all contain similar features, they are organised in a completely different fashion from one property to the next. The structures move around the yard, pits open and close, and pathways snake in different directions. Inside the houses is different again, and contemporary houses of comparable size exhibit quite different layouts. Inside the house is the most private space of the household, and it is here where the household expresses its individual identity through their choice of internal spatial layout. Burmeister’s argument lends additional strength to this interpretation as he argues that, while outwardly conforming to the new situation, the household will seek to re-create the feeling of home within the privacy of the internal domain. This results in the curation of certain features or practices within the home, some of which we see in the archaeological record in the form of artefacts, imported materials, or potentially even curated or heirloom artefacts (Gilchrist, 2012, 242–251). The most dramatic is the presence of ritual deposits in the foundation levels (see Chapters 4 and 7), but, it must be stressed, there are only three such deposits known from across these buildings. These deposits represent exceptional finds rather than standard ones. But perhaps the most visible expressions of home were those which we encountered through access analysis in Chapter 6. There, we saw that spatial arrangements fall into one of two patterns: ‘wide and shallow’ or ‘deep and narrow’. I suggested that each of these could indicate elements of native Irish styles or more Scandinavian styles of thinking about space. Integrating this with Burmeister’s concept of the internal domain, we see that these layouts allow each household to express their own identities and individuality in its own personal and private space. From a chronological perspective, both ‘deep and narrow’ and ‘wide and shallow’ layouts are found at the same times across

Urban Worlds and Urban Lives  203 the spectrum of housing from the 9th to the 12th century. Yet all these houses are part of the same external domain featuring that post-and-wattle, rectangular Type 1 construction. The logical conclusion is that this urban community incorporated households which identified both with more open and more closed ways of thinking about space. We could suggest that this means that there were Irish and Scandinavian households present within the town, but this is hardly a new conclusion. I think what is most valuable here is to see that the same ways of arranging space occur in 9th-century houses and in 12th-century houses. What this tells us is that, right from the first appearance of these houses in Temple Bar West, there was agreement upon what the exterior of these houses should look like. Internally, there was much more flexibility, and spatial arrangements could change from level to level. In contrast, the construction style and the external domain do not change – the status quo of this ‘contact zone’ is maintained. This creates a new identity, which is more important and relevant than simplistic ethnic identities – the hybrid urban identity. This urban identity is structured around its architecture, the unchanging streetfront panorama, and the potential for personal expressions of identity within the safety of the internal, household domain. This was first worked out in an Irish context by the inhabitants of Temple Bar West and Parliament Street. Early expressions of alternate building styles – the Type 4a sunken-floored structures and the hall building at the Black Pool – were disregarded in favour of the Type 1 house. There are further questions which we need to ask in relation to the chronology of Kaupang and Ribe, where this building type does appear in 7th- and 8th-century contexts. Did the first occupants of Temple Bar West have direct connections to Scandinavia? Was there a direct influence from these places to Dublin? The answers to these questions will come not from the architecture but rather from applying new perspectives and techniques to Dublin’s 9th-century archaeological record. This brings us back to the idea of permanence and intention in Dublin’s early decades. We see that permanence in this balance of ‘urban’ house styles and urban infrastructure, and I suspect that we will see a much wider range of indicators of permanence and intention in further work on our existing corpus of material. This urban identity and ‘way of doing things’ developed within the banks of Dublin during the 10th century at Fishamble Street, Christchurch Place, High Street, and Winetavern Street. By the end of the 11th century, there was a defined idea of what a town was and what it should look like. This urban pattern was replicated on Cork’s South Main Street and in Peter Street in Waterford. Dublin’s suburban development may display some initial digression from this (e.g. with the Aungier Street sunken-floored structure), but the buildings at the Coombe and Hammond Lane demonstrate that this architecture represents the ‘right way’ to live in an urban place – it represents a new, urban habitus.

204  The Town The Urban Household In finishing here, I want to reflect on how the development of this urban way of life impacted upon the household itself. Throughout this book, I have emphasised how the materiality of the household is expressed through the variety and appearances of built and unbuilt spaces in the town. These range from the microscale of individual houses or properties to the macroscale of the streets and the town as a whole. These spaces are what shaped the day-to-day experience of the urban household, the confines of the property plot, the connections of the street, and the boundaries of the town. This daily geography is quite different from that of a rural household – the fields and pastures of the farm and the hills and woods of the countryside. The Viking-Age urban household was a complex and dynamic entity and must be viewed from an intersectional perspective. This acknowledges the complementary and conflicting potential for different genders and gender orientations, status or class, race, age, (dis)abilities, beliefs, and ethnicities within every single household associated with the town. To this, I would add that investigations of the urban household should be positional, contrasted against the experience and identities of what is ‘other’ to them (Easthope, 2009, 68), their rural counterparts. The worlds of urban and rural households overlapped but represent two worlds which are fundamentally different from each other. There is one exception to this: regardless of whether the household is situated in the middle of Dublin, on the edge of the Atlantic, or on a farm near Cork, each household undertakes maintenance activities which sustain the existence of the household. This perpetuation is based on their repetition and dissemination through the existing social networks of the household. When those social networks increase in size, there is greater opportunity for change which can be either positive or negative (­Dommasnes, 2008, 94). The private and public domains of the household engage at the front of the property, at the juncture between the private home and the public world, as represented by the street right outside the house. It is in the street and through the street that new ideas, trends, and thoughts are brought literally to the door of the house and the household. The Viking-Age town was a fast-paced environment, especially in comparison with the rural farmsteads. Urban households had to negotiate their way through a collision of old and new, familiar and strange, known and unknown. These negotiations occurred throughout the Viking world, from religious practices (Kristjánsdóttir, 2015) to diet (Barrett, 2003, 2004; Barrett et al., 2004), art (Lang, 1988; Stocker, 2000; Thomas, 2000), language (Ó Corráin, 2009; Wallace, 2008), hairstyles (Ashby, 2014), and styles of architecture (Boyd, 2016) right up to the negotiation of new ways of living in towns (Ambrosiani, 2013; Croix, 2015, 2020b; Skre, 2007b, 2011). The pace and scale of changes from the 9th to the 12th century are vast. Yet somehow in amongst all this change, the buildings which create the Irish Viking-Age town do not change. Flanders notes a similar architectural stagnation in the Victorian era,

Urban Worlds and Urban Lives  205 another busy period of urban expansion and social change. Gagnier calls this “a time of unprecedented social mobility” (Gagnier, 2008, 36) when the rules of home were developed, applied, and followed because they provided Victorian society with a level of confidence to enable that social mobility. The numbers of people choosing to live in towns grew from 20% of the population in 1801 to 80% by 1901 (Flanders, 2004, xxxvi). Flanders suggests that the curation of a stable and unchanging home environment was a reaction to the ‘dynamism … [and] … rapid technological change’ of the world outside the home (Flanders, 2004, xxi). The world of the Viking-Age towns could be viewed as a similar melting pot of social mobility and change. I want to finish here by reintroducing the concepts of place and belonging which we encountered in Chapter 7. When the world outside the home is in a state of change, the need and desire for a sense of belonging and place increase (Easthope, 2004, 133). The fast pace of change in Ireland’s Viking-Age towns may be exactly why the townspeople sought to establish some continuity and stability by conserving their architectural styles and maintaining their sense of place through curating the established property boundaries. Individual houses are repaired and replaced, but the streetfront panorama – the external domain of the ‘contact zone’ – remains stable. This allows people to encounter the urban world outside the house with a rootedness in ‘place’ centred in the house, in its familiar lines and layout, its connections to the past creating that sense of place and belonging in this new urban world.

9

Ireland’s Viking-Age Towns Where Next?

At the opening of this book, I introduced it as being an archaeology of the household, the house, and the town. The dataset comprises the archaeological remains of some 493 houses from Ireland’s Viking-Age towns, excavated primarily during developer-led archaeology over the past 40 years. The pressures of developer-led archaeology, unfortunately, mean that there is rarely time for synthesis and reflection, particularly in urban settings. This work is the first to explicitly compare Viking-Age houses from Dublin, Cork, and Waterford in this level of detail. The value of this dataset is its scale, which allows us to move beyond the most eye-catching houses – like FS88 from Fishamble Street – and consider the full gamut of housing practices in these Viking-Age towns. These houses were constructed, used, and valued to create a sense of ‘place’, of belonging, and of home in these new urban environments. The narrative which unfolded through the analysis of these houses is one of creation, of creation of a new urban place, a new urban way of living and a new, urban identity. What I set out to do is to shift our understanding of these houses beyond discussions of the ‘production’ of the house (Tringham, 1995, 86). My perspective is, to use Tringham’s term, to consider the house as a culturally constructed place, as a home (ibid, 94). My framework is that summarised by Hendon, incorporating the pillars of scale, variability, materiality, and the day-to-day experience to examine these houses and their households (Hendon, 2007). For Hendon, a successful household archaeology rests on three foundations (ibid, 272–275). The first of these is an awareness of how built spaces – houses and architecture – function as a social proxy and marker of identity. This underlies the presentation of the houses through Part 1, which introduced the different types of houses and architectures present in these places. We see through these chapters how the post-and-wattle Type 1 house comes to dominate the urban streetscape despite the early diversity of architectural types in the 9th century. This rectangular house with its aisled layout, central hearth, and opposed doorways represents the ‘right way’ of living in these new towns. The constant repetition of this architecture across time and sites demonstrates how this architecture created the external domain of the town, a neutral ‘contact zone’ (Burmeister, 2017) where urban life could unfold. Inside the house represented DOI: 10.4324/9781003039006-12

Ireland’s Viking-Age Towns  207 the internal domain for each household, a place of privacy and space for the household within the town. The second and third foundations are intermingled. These are an understanding of the household as an institution and an active awareness and investigation of gender within that household. These are both refracted through Part 2, the analysis of individual houses and spaces via artefact distribution studies, access analysis, and comparative analysis of the external spaces available to each household – their properties. The artefact distribution studies from nine Fishamble Street houses present us with a detailed exploration of household practices, choices, and strategies, as seen through the artefacts left behind in these houses. What emerged from these distribution studies was a series of reflections on work practices and gendered behaviours within the town and its urban household. There is significantly more work to be done around the question of gender in Viking Age and medieval Ireland, but these findings emphasise the potential which a fully gender-aware perspective would bring to these analyses. In Chapter 6, by looking at the boundaries, limits, and thresholds to movement, we explored how people moved around and through these houses. This too revealed snapshots of household practice and choice, but these practices seem to indicate greater and lesser preferences for privacy within the house. The repetition of these patterns across sites and time highlights the potential for an ‘urban genotype’ here rather than an ethnic one. The final chapter in Part 2 explored the properties within which each house and household were situated. These properties were in a constant state of change, and the various elements were regularly repaired, remodelled, and replaced. Stability is provided by the maintenance of the fences and pathways to add towards that external domain, helping to create the sense of place and attachment within the town and that urban identity. Part 3 – the final chapters – use the snapshots of individual houses and households and the patterns from across the preceding chapters to construct a new exploration of the town as a social construction. This – the discussion of town – draws on both the microscale and macroscale analyses to discuss the wider perspective of the town as a place where people lived, worked, and played. Its value rests on the comparisons from house to house, site to site, and town to town. While it is framed around Dublin, all of the concepts and themes could be expanded to any urban setting. This town is a busy place. It was fast-paced, cosmopolitan, and ever-changing. It was structured by and around its architecture, its houses. This built space enables the households to maintain their own private worlds and engage in and with the new worlds right outside their doors. These houses reflect a key moment in our past, one which still resonates today. This is the emergence of towns, of urban places, and of urban lifestyles. The Viking Age was one of change and adaptation. These homes provided a sense of place and stability, anchoring the households in these new urban landscapes and allowing the townspeople to create and adapt to this new world. Today, our urban story continues, but we are under increasing pressure from climate change and population increases to create sustainable ways of living.

208  The Town The value of these studies of Viking-Age towns is that they are stories of ability, adaptability, and resilience. They are significant precisely because they show that we have always been able to adapt to change. Where Next? This urban identity shaped and framed the streets and spaces of our towns today. These places, established over 1000 years ago, are an integral part of our urban identity, and one which we are still shaping today through the ongoing development of our city centres. The role that we, as archaeologists, have is to continue to investigate those origins, both through ongoing archaeological ­excavations and interventions and through researching the existing archive of material. This is both a privilege and a responsibility. Our archaeological ­record is a finite resource – there are only so many archaeological sites to excavate. Each archaeological intervention represents a significant investment of time and resources in the excavation, analysis, and conservation of each site’s archive. As archaeologists, we have a duty of care towards this finite resource to preserve as much of it as possible for the future and to look after the materials we have already excavated. As for the future study of Ireland’s Viking-Age towns, there is no shortage of questions here. However, there are limits to the answers which we can provide. The first is the incomplete nature of post-excavation programmes and lack of a research agendas for our Viking-Age towns (Clarke, 2016; Harrison, 2017). Part of our duty of care towards our archaeological heritage includes undertaking new research on archive material. None of these Dublin sites have been brought to full publication, and many languish as grey literature in the archives of the National Monuments Service. Others, including Fishamble Street and Wood Quay, remain in post-excavation stasis, representing an incomplete and inaccessible archive. The second is the lack of reliable and specific scientific dating chronologies for these sites. An immediate priority must be the establishment of new dating programmes for 9th- and early 10th-century Dublin to re-assess what we think we know about these levels. Alongside these, we need to acknowledge that much of our current research on early medieval Ireland is heavily dominated by questions of power and privilege. These are male-centric and usual elite perspectives, focusing on royal (by default, kingly, e.g. Gleeson, 2019) or ecclesiastical (e.g. Ó Carragáin and Turner, 2016) power, on the economic role of productive, trading, or exchange networks (Horne, 2022; Wallace, 1987a, 2016), or on the perspective of the ‘Viking’ warrior burial (Harrison and Ó Floinn, 2014). These perspectives foreground the contributions made by powerful men usually in particularly charged places – churches, royal sites, or battlefields. These are exclusionary perspectives and do not represent the majority of the population. This may be a reflection of the nature of research in Ireland which still has significant representational issues, but it is also a reflection the types of archaeology which are prioritized above others. We urgently need to incorporate, at a bare

Ireland’s Viking-Age Towns  209 minimum, feminist perspectives into our research agendas as well as a much more diverse and intersectional perspective recognising the multiplicity of experiences and identities in early medieval Ireland. I will end by noting that the field of urban archaeology is undergoing something of a revolution at the moment (see, for example, Raja and Sindbæk, 2020, and their new Journal of Urban Archaeology). Urban excavation is a long-term commitment, and its responsibilities extend far beyond the moment you step off site (Raja and Sindbæk, 2023). Since the first of these sites were excavated in the 1960s, the questions we can ask and the methods and analyses we can apply to answer have changed beyond imagining. Most importantly, the quality of organic preservation and scale of material recovered over the past 40 years of pre-development archaeology in Dublin, in particular, is outstanding. The finite nature of the archaeological record means that the archive of material already excavated in Dublin, Cork, and Waterford represents an incredibly valuable resource and one which is full of potential for a new archaeology of Ireland’s Viking-Age towns. These new archaeologies face one further challenge: unlike that of many other countries, Ireland’s urban narrative fits completely within the historic period. This diversity of source material is both a blessing and a curse. Historians tend to prefer hard and fast definitions of what is and is not urban, and when their ‘bundles of criteria’ (Croix, 2020a) do not match up to the archaeology on the ground, the tendency has been to defer to the history. This may not, however, always be the right thing to do, and we must question whether applying later, historically derived, definitions and criteria of urbanism to earlier archaeological contexts will work (e.g. Croix, 2020b; Jervis, 2016, 382–384; Smith, 2020, 25). The narrative here emphasised the social nature of the town, as a space where people came together to create a new community. This is a much more nuanced approach which can be seen only through the archaeology. Our overlap between both documentary and material evidence provides us with an opportunity to redefine how we approach Ireland’s early medieval towns. This new approach needs to prioritise the archaeological investigation of urbanism, looking at the data from the ground and asking questions that only archaeology can answer.

Appendix A Site Gazetteer

In total, 26 excavations have revealed evidence for 493 Viking-Age houses from across Dublin, Cork, Waterford, and Wexford. Every archaeological excavation in the Republic of Ireland is issued an excavation licence on condition that a summary report be submitted to the annual Excavations Bulletin. These reports can be found at www.excavations.ie by searching for the licence or reference number. Excavation reports for sites located within ­Dublin city can be accessed via the Dublin County Heritage map resources on www.heritagemaps.ie. Co. Dublin: Site: South Great Georges Street Director: Linzi Simpson Licence: 99E414

Site: Christchurch Place/Jury’s Hotel development Director: Margaret Gowen Licence: 1992:052

Site: Essex St. West/Temple Bar West Director: Linzi Simpson Licence: 96E245

Site: Werburgh Street Director: Alan Hayden Licence: 94E0025

Site: 33–34 Parliament Street/5–7 Exchange Street Upper Director: Georgina Scally Licence: 93E0143

Site: Fishamble Street/Wood Quay Director: Patrick F. Wallace/National Museum of Ireland Excavations.ie Reference: 1974:0015, 1975:17, 1976:048, 1977-79: 098

Site: 26–29 Castle Street Director: Martin Byrnes Excavations.ie Reference: 1992:051, 1993:057 Site: Christchurch Place Director: A.B. Ó’Ríordáin/National Museum of Ireland Licence: 1974:0014 Excavations.ie Reference: 1975:15

Site: Dublin Castle Director: Ann Lynch Excavations.ie Reference: 1985:24, 1986:25 Site: High Street/Winetavern Street Director: A.B. Ó’Ríordáin /National Museum of Ireland Excavations.ie Reference: 1970:17

Appendix A  211 Site: 161–168 Church Street/3–15 Hammond Lane, Dublin Director: Colm Moriarty Licence: 09E0517

Site: 40–48 South Main Street Director: Máire Ní Loinsigh & Deborah Sutton Licence: 03E1170 & 04E0132

Site: 124–128 The Coombe Director: Claire Walsh Licence: 08E0150

Site: Former Beamish & Crawford Brewery, Main Street South, Cork, Cork Director: Maurice F. Hurley Licence: 10E0193

Site: 118–123 The Coombe Director: Aisling Collins Licence: 16E0080 Site: 7–13 Stephen Street, 17–19 Longford Street and 71–5 Aungier Street, Dublin Director: Paul Duffy Licence: 17E0212 Co. Cork: Site: South Main Street/Hanover Place/Liberty Street/Cross Street Director: Maurice F. Hurley Licence: 00E0124 Site: South Main Street/Christchurch Director: D. C. Twohig Licence: 1975:043; 1976:040 Site: Hanover Street/South Main Street Director: Rose M. Cleary Licence: 1996:043 Site: 36–39 South Main Street Director: Hilary Kelleher Licence: 04E0371

Co. Waterford: Site: Peter Street Director: Maurice F. Hurley Licence: 1987:54 Site: Barronstrand Street Director: Dave Pollock Licence: 05E1185 Site: Theatre Royal/Deanery Gardens Director: Órla Scully Excavations.ie Reference: 2009:822 Licence: E4019 Site: Baileys New Street Director: Mary O’Donnell Licence: 99E0103 ext. Co. Wexford: Site: Bride Street Director: Edward Bourke Licence: E438

Appendix B The Artefact Distribution Tables

Typical artefact distribution studies rely on careful recording of artefact locations within a geo-­referenced site grid and use specialist identifications of each artefact following post-­excavation analysis to build the narrative. Unfortunately, the extended nature and scale of the post-­excavation processes of Fishamble Street have so far precluded such a detailed analysis. The analysis contained within Chapter 4 makes the case for the value of such work and presents a framework within which this could be situated. The underpinning research grappled with some of the challenges in working with an incompletely analysed archive, including multiple finds registers, duplicated context numbers, an incomplete stratigraphical matrix, report and site plans, lack of GPS co-­ordinates, and incomplete specialist analysis. Additional registers of animal bones, slag, and environmental samples were not included here, but their inclusion would be recommended for future analysis. The site archive was consulted to identify each artefact from these nine houses. The artefacts were then assigned to a locational designation within the house, such as North West corner or Side Aisle or Porch. The artefacts were then classified into one of 16 functional categories (Table 5.1), assigned a symbol, and plotted onto the ground plan for the house (Figures 5.2–5.7). In many ways, this is an old-­school analysis, based on visualisations of data rather than GPS co-­ordinates and spatially referenced GIS datatables, but it worked well within the context of this archive. Here, the artefact categories were deliberately chosen to ground the function of the artefacts rather than interpret them in relation to activities. Tables B1–B8 present the registers for each of the eight houses in this analysis, presenting data by location, category, and material. Table B9 is a concordance of artefact material and category for each of the houses.

The Artefact Distribution Tables  213 Table B1  The artefacts from the Type 5 structures FS5

Total

FS64

Total

House   Tool   Bone Total

1 1 1 1

House   Vessel   Pottery Total

1 1 1 1

Table B2  The artefacts from FS23 FS23

Total

Floor

6

Craft Debris  Amber Knife  Iron Object  Wood Vessel  Iron

1 1 1 1 3 3 1 1

Foundation

25

Craft Debris  Amber Dress Accessory  Iron Jewellery  Amber  Glass Nail  Iron Object  Amber  Iron  Wood Personal Accessory  Bone Structural  Iron Textile

5 5 1 1 2 1 1 6 6 3 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 2 (Continued)

214  The Artefact Distribution Tables Table B2  (Continued) FS23

Total

 Leather  Textile Tool  Clay  Iron  Stone Vessel  Pottery

1 1 3 1 1 1 1 1

House

4

Craft Debris  Amber Grooming Accessory  Bone Personal Accessory  Leather Textile  Leather

1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1

West Side Aisle

3

Craft Debris  Amber Textile  Leather  Textile

1 1 2 1 1

Wall

6

Knife  Iron Nail  Iron Object  Wood Personal Accessory  Bone Tool  Stone Vessel  Wood Total

1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 44

The Artefact Distribution Tables  215 Table B3  The artefacts from FS29 FS29

Total

Floor

28

Dress Accessory  Bone Jewellery  Amber Nail  Iron Object  Bone  Clay  Iron Textile  Leather  Textile Tool  Iron  Stone Weapon  Iron Weight  Lead

2 2 1 1 6 6 3 1 1 1 7 3 4 5 4 1 2 2 2 2

Foundation

21

Craft Debris  Amber  Antler Dress Accessory  Bone  Bronze  Leather Grooming Accessory  Bone Jewellery  Amber Lock/Key  Iron Nail  Iron Object  Iron  Wood Tool  Bone  Iron Vessel  Wood

3 2 1 3 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 5 5 3 1 2 3 1 2 1 1 (Continued)

216  The Artefact Distribution Tables Table B3  (Continued) FS29

Total

House

5

Jewellery  Amber Nail  Iron Object  Bronze Tool  Iron Weapon  Iron

1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1

North East Corner

3

Dress Accessory  Iron Nail  Iron Tool  Bone

1 1 1 1 1 1

South Porch

1

Textile  Leather

1 1

South Side Aisle

5

Craft Debris  Amber Dress Accessory  Whalebone Nail  Iron Textile  Leather Weight  Lead Total

1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 63

Table B4  The artefacts from FS46 FS46

Total

Central Aisle

16

Craft Debris  Amber  Wood Dress Accessory  Bone  Bronze

4 2 2 4 2 1 (Continued)

The Artefact Distribution Tables  217 Table B4  (Continued) FS46

Total

 Iron Object  Bronze  Iron Textile  Leather  Textile Tool  Bone  Stone Weight  Bronze

1 2 1 1 3 2 1 2 1 1 1 1

Floor

3

Craft Debris  Amber Dress Accessory  Bone Knife  Iron

1 1 1 1 1 1

Foundation

21

Craft Debris  Amber  Bone  Lead Lock/Key  Iron Nail  Iron Object  Iron Textile  Leather  Textile Tool  Stone

3 1 1 1 1 1 2 2 1 1 11 1 10 3 3

House

2

Craft Debris  Amber Structural  Wood

1 1 1 1

North Side Aisle

4

Object  Iron  Wood

2 1 1 (Continued)

218  The Artefact Distribution Tables Table B4  (Continued) FS46

Total

Personal Accessory  Leather Tool  Stone

1 1 1 1

North East Corner/Centre 1 Object  Wood

1 1

North West Corner

5

Craft Debris  Wood Dress Accessory  Wood Jewellery  Lignite Object  Iron Structural  Iron

1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1

South Side Aisle

4

Craft Debris  Amber Object  Wood Tool  Bone

1 1 1 1 2 2

South East Corner

8

Craft Debris  Amber  Bone Dress Accessory  Bronze Textile  Leather

6 4 2 1 1 1 1

West Porch

6

Textile  Textile Total

6 6 70

The Artefact Distribution Tables  219 Table B5  The artefacts from FS84 FS84

Total

Central

3

Dress Accessory  Horn Textile  Leather Vessel  Wood

1 1 1 1 1 1

Central & West

16

Dress Accessory  Bronze  Wood Grooming Accessory  Bone Lock/Key  Iron   Nail  Iron Object  Wood Structural  Wood Textile  Leather Tool  Bone Vessel  Wood Weapon  Iron

2 1 1 2 2 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 4 4 2 2 1 1 1 1

East

15

Craft Debris  Bone Dress Accessory  Wood Nail  Iron Object  Iron  Wood Structural  Iron Textile  Leather  Textile

1 1 1 1 3 3 2 1 1 1 1 3 2 1 (Continued)

220  The Artefact Distribution Tables Table B5  (Continued) FS84

Total

Tool  Bone  Stone  Wood Weapon  Leather

3 1 1 1 1 1

Foundation

6

Nail  Iron Object  Wood Textile  Leather Tool  Bone

2 2 1 1 2 2 1 1

Hearth

1

Tool  Stone

1 1

House

46

Craft Debris  Antler  Bone  Wood Dress Accessory  Leather Grooming Accessory  Bone Jewellery  Bronze Nail  Iron  Wood Object  Iron  Wood Textile  Hide  Leather  Textile Tool  Bone  Iron  Stone  Wood Vessel  Wood

4 1 2 1 1 1 2 2 1 1 6 5 1 8 1 7 9 1 4 4 9 2 1 4 2 6 6 (Continued)

The Artefact Distribution Tables  221 Table B5  (Continued) FS84

Total

  Wall

1

Tool  Lignite

1 1

West

8

Craft Debris  Bone  Bronze  Lead Object  Iron  Wood Textile  Leather Tool  Bone Weapon  Iron Total

3 1 1 1 2 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 96

Table B6  The artefacts from FS88 FS88

Total

Abandonment

25

Craft Debris  Antler  Bone  Wood Dress Accessory  Bone  Bronze  Leather Grooming Accessory  Bone Jewellery  Glass Nail  Iron Object  Wood Textile  Leather  Silk Tool  Bone

5 1 3 1 3 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 4 4 2 2 2 1 1 6 1 (Continued)

222  The Artefact Distribution Tables Table B6  (Continued) FS88

Total

 Granite  Iron  Stone  Whalebone  Wood Vessel  Pottery

1 1 1 1 1 1 1

Central Aisle

8

Dress Accessory  Bone Grooming Accessory  Bone Nail  Iron Tool  Bone Vessel  Wood

1 1 1 1 4 4 1 1 1 1

Eastern Doorway

4

Knife  Iron Structural  Wood Tool  Glass  Stone

1 1 1 1 2 1 1

East Porch

4

Dress Accessory  Bronze Nail  Iron Tool  Bone  Wood

1 1 1 1 2 1 1

House

34

Craft Debris  Bone  Bronze Dress Accessory  Bone  Bronze  Iron  Leather

5 4 1 5 1 2 1 1 (Continued)

The Artefact Distribution Tables  223 Table B6  (Continued) FS88

Total

Grooming Accessory  Bone Jewellery  Glass Nail  Iron Object  Iron Personal Accessory  Bone  Leather  Wood Textile  Leather Tool   Baked clay  Bone  Stone Vessel  Leather  Pottery  Wood

2 2 1 1 5 5 1 1 3 1 1 1 2 2 6 1 1 4 4 1 2 1

North Side Aisle

98

Craft Debris  Bone  Bronze  Tusk  Wood Dress Accessory  Bone  Bronze  Iron  Leather Grooming Accessory  Bone Horse Equipment  Iron Jewellery  Glass Knife  Iron Lock/Key  Iron Nail  Iron   Iron/copper alloy  Wood

6 1 1 1 3 8 1 2 2 3 2 2 1 1 1 1 5 5 2 2 18 15 1 2 (Continued)

224  The Artefact Distribution Tables Table B6  (Continued) FS88

Total

Object  Clay  Glass  Iron  Stone  Wood Personal Accessory  Leather  Wood Structural  Iron  Wood Textile  Hide  Leather  Textile Tool  Bone  Iron  Stone  Wood Vessel  Leather  Pottery  Wood Weapon  Iron Weight  Lead

13 1 1 4 1 6 3 2 1 5 4 1 4 1 2 1 16 2 5 1 8 11 1 1 9 1 1 2 2

North Wall

5

Craft Debris  Wood Dress Accessory  Iron Jewellery  Glass Nail  Iron  Wood

1 1 1 1 1 1 2 1 1

North East Corner

1

Vessel  Wood

1 1

North West Corner

3

Personal Accessory  Leather Tool  Wood

1 1 1 1 (Continued)

The Artefact Distribution Tables  225 Table B6  (Continued) FS88

Total

Vessel  Wood

1 1

Roof Support

18

Craft Debris  Bone Dress Accessory  Bone Knife  Iron Nail  Iron Object  Bone  Glass  Iron  Wood Personal Accessory  Bone Tool  Bone  Iron  Stone  Wood

1 1 2 2 1 1 2 2 4 1 1 1 1 1 1 7 1 2 1 3

South Side Aisle

56

Craft Debris  Bone  Wood Dress Accessory  Bone  Bronze  Leather Grooming Accessory  Bone Jewellery  Glass Knife  Iron Nail  Iron Object  Bronze  Iron  Lead  Wood Structural  Iron

4 2 2 9 3 4 2 3 3 1 1 3 3 5 5 8 1 4 2 1 1 1 (Continued)

226  The Artefact Distribution Tables Table B6  (Continued) FS88

Total

Textile  Leather  Textile Tool  Bone  Pottery  Stone  Wood Vessel  Pottery  Wood

6 1 5 8 3 1 2 2 8 1 7

South Wall

7

Dress Accessory  Bone Jewellery  Amber Object  Iron  Stone Tool  Bone Vessel  Hide Weapon  Iron

1 1 1 1 2 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1

South West Corner

20

Craft Debris  Bone Dress Accessory  Bone Horse Equipment  Bronze Lock/Key  Iron Nail  Iron Object  Iron Textile  Leather Tool  Bone Vessel  Wood Weapon  Leather

4 4 1 1 1 1 1 1 6 6 1 1 1 1 1 1 3 3 1 1 (Continued)

The Artefact Distribution Tables  227 Table B6  (Continued) FS88

Total

West Porch

25

Craft Debris  Bone  Lead  Metal Dress Accessory  Bone Grooming Accessory  Bone Jewellery  Bronze  Glass Lock/Key  Iron Nail  Iron Object  Iron  Lead  Wood Personal Accessory  Leather Textile  Textile Tool  Antler  Stone Vessel  Wood Weapon  Iron  Leather Total

3 1 1 1 1 1 2 2 2 1 1 1 1 4 4 4 2 1 1 1 1 1 1 2 1 1 2 2 2 1 1 308

Table B7  The artefacts from FS90 FS90

Total

Central Aisle

7

Dress Accessory  Bone Jewellery  Amber  Glass Nail  Iron

1 1 2 1 1 1 1 (Continued)

228  The Artefact Distribution Tables Table B7  (Continued) FS90

Total

Object  Iron Personal Accessory  Wood Tool  Wood/iron

1 1 1 1 1 1

East

4

Nail  Clay  Iron Object  Iron Textile  Leather

2 1 1 1 1 1 1

North East Corner

1

Tool  Wood

1 1

North West Corner

24

Craft Debris  Antler  Bone  Wood Dress Accessory  Bone  Iron  Wood Horse Equipment  Iron Lock/Key  Iron Nail  Iron Object  Iron  Wood Structural  Iron Tool  Bone  Iron Vessel  Wood Weapon  Iron

5 2 2 1 4 2 1 1 1 1 1 1 3 3 4 2 2 2 2 2 1 1 1 1 1 1

Roof

1

Dress Accessory  Bronze

1 1 (Continued)

The Artefact Distribution Tables  229 Table B7  (Continued) FS90

Total

South Side Aisle

1

Tool  Iron

1 1

South Wall

7

Dress Accessory  Bronze Horse Equipment  Iron Knife  Iron Nail  Iron Tool  Antler  Bone

1 1 1 1 1 1 2 2 2 1 1

South East Corner

5

Dress Accessory  Bone Lock/Key  Iron Nail  Iron Tool  Clay Vessel  Wood

1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1

South West Corner

14

Grooming Accessory  Bone Lock/Key  Iron Nail  Iron Object  Bone  Iron  Wood Structural  Iron Vessel  Wood Weight  Lead

1 1 1 1 5 5 3 1 1 1 1 1 2 2 1 1

West of House

7

Nail  Iron

1 1 (Continued)

230  The Artefact Distribution Tables Table B7  (Continued)

FS90

Total

Object  Bronze  Wood Textile  Leather Vessel  Wood Total

4 1 3 1 1 1 1 71

Table B8  The artefacts from FS90A FS90A

Total

Abandonment

12

Craft Debris  Antler Dress Accessory  Bone Nail  Iron Object  Wood Textile  Leather  Textile Tool  Bone  Metal Vessel  Wood

1 1 1 1 3 3 1 1 2 1 1 2 1 1 2 2

Central Aisle

5

Dress Accessory  Bone  Bronze Object  Iron  Lead Vessel  Wood

2 1 1 2 1 1 1 1

East Porch

18

Craft Debris  Bone  Wood Dress Accessory  Bone

2 1 1 2 2 (Continued)

The Artefact Distribution Tables  231 Table B8  (Continued) FS90A

Total

Jewellery  Glass Knife  Iron Nail  Iron Object  Iron Tool  Bone  Stone Vessel  Wood

1 1 1 1 4 4 3 3 2 1 1 3 3

North Side Aisle

11

Craft Debris  Lead Dress Accessory  Bone  Bronze Nail  Iron Structural  Iron Tool  Iron

1 1 3 2 1 4 4 1 1 2 2

North East Corner

10

Nail  Iron Object  Bone  Iron Textile  Silk Tool  Iron  Stone Vessel  Wood Weapon  Iron

1 1 2 1 1 1 1 4 2 2 1 1 1 1

North of House

4

Nail  Iron

3 3 (Continued)

232  The Artefact Distribution Tables Table B8  (Continued) FS90A

Total

Object  Lead

1 1

North West Corner

24

Craft Debris  Bone Grooming Accessory  Bone Lock/Key  Iron Nail  Iron Object  Wood Textile  Leather Tool  Iron  Wood Vessel  Soapstone  Wood Weight  Lead

1 1 2 2 1 1 6 6 1 1 1 1 4 2 2 7 1 6 1 1

South Side Aisle

9

Dress Accessory  Bone Jewellery  Glass Knife  Iron Object  Iron  Jet  Stone Tool  Iron  Wood Weapon  Iron

1 1 1 1 1 1 3 1 1 1 2 1 1 1 1

South East Corner

1

Grooming Accessory  Horn

1 1

South West Corner

4

Dress Accessory  Bronze Tool  Bone Weight  Lead Total

2 2 1 1 1 1 98

Table B9  Concordance of artefacts from all houses (early to (mid-­to late mid-­10th 10th century) century) FS5 Amber

Craft Debris Jewellery Object Craft Debris Tool

Baked clay

Tool

Bone

Craft Debris Dress Accessory Grooming Accessory Object Personal Accessory Tool

Bronze

Clay

FS23

FS29

FS46

8 1 1 10

3 3

10

6

10

1 1 1

2 3

Craft Debris Dress Accessory Horse Equipment Jewellery Object Weight Nail Object Tool

FS64

(early 11th century)

FS84

1

1

1

1

3 3

4

2 7

3 9

1

2

7 15 1 1

1

1 1 4

3 1 1

2 1 1

(late 10th century)

4

1 3

FS88

FS90

1

1

1

1

1 1 2 1 1 16 12 11 1 2 12 54 2 10 1 1 1

2 1 3

1

2 4 1 1

2 7 2 1

2 10

3 15

2

4

15

3 1

1

1

1

1

FS90A Total 21 6 1 28

1

1

1 2

4

6 2 8 1 1 27 29 20 4 4 30 114 3 20 1 2 4 1 31 1 2 2 5 (Continued)

The Artefact Distribution Tables  233

Antler

(late 10th century)

(early to (mid-­to late mid-­10th 10th century) century) FS5 Glass

Jewellery Object Tool

Granite

Tool

Hide

Textile Vessel

Horn

Dress Accessory Grooming Accessory

FS23

FS29

(late 10th century) FS46

(late 10th century) FS64

(early 11th century)

FS84

1 1 1 1 1

FS88

FS90

FS90A Total

6 2 1 9 1 1 1 1 2

1

2

1

2

1 1

1 Iron

Dress Accessory Horse Equipment Knife Lock/Key Nail Object Structural Tool Vessel Weapon

1 2 7 1 1 1 1 14

Iron/copper alloy

Nail

1

1

1 14 2

1 1 2 4 1

7 3 28

10

1 11 3 1 1

4 1 10 4 47 14 5 8

1 2 1 3 14 5 3 2

2 1 21 6 1 7

2 19

3 96

1 32

2 40

1 1

10 2 1 13 1 1 2 1 3 1 1 2 8 3 16 11 116 35 12 26 1 11 239 1 1

234  The Artefact Distribution Tables

Table B9  (Continued)

Jet

Object

Lead

Craft Debris Object Weight

Leather

Dress Accessory Personal Accessory Textile Vessel Weapon

1 3 4

Lignite

3 3 1 5 6

Jewellery Tool

1

1

1

1 1

1 4

14 1 16

5 1

Tool Vessel

Silk

Textile

Soapstone

Vessel

Stone

Object Tool

Textile

Textile

1

1 1

2 2 2 2

1 1 5 6 1 1

1 1

1 1 4 4

5 5 17 17

2

2

2

2

6 6 5 5

2 11 13 7 7

1 1

1 1 1 1 1 3 4 1 1

1 1 4 5 8 17 9 7 37 2 3 58 1 1 2 1 1 2 1 7 8 2 2 1 1 3 28 31 36 36 (Continued)

The Artefact Distribution Tables  235

Craft Debris Tool

Pottery

1 1

1 1

1 Metal

1 3 2 6 7 5 7 2 2 23

1 1 1 2 2 5

(early to (mid-­to late mid-­10th 10th century) century) FS5 Tusk

Craft Debris

Whalebone

Dress Accessory Tool

FS23

FS29

(late 10th century) FS46

(late 10th century) FS64

(early 11th century)

FS84

Wood/iron Total

FS90

FS90A Total

1 1

1 1

1

6 1

2

1 5 15

3 13 19

1 1 1 1 2 13 4 4 40 3 4 23 53 144

98

1 1 752

1 1

Wood

FS88

Craft Debris Dress Accessory Nail Object Personal Accessory Structural Tool Vessel

3 1 5

2

1 2 1 11

3 1

1 6

1 3

1 3 8 27

8

1 1 7 3 11 2 2 16 25 66

Tool 1

44

63

70

1

96

308

1 1 71

236  The Artefact Distribution Tables

Table B9  (Continued)

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Index

Pages in italics refer to figures and pages in bold refer to tables. access analysis 18, 131–156, 162, 202, 207; bent axis 136, 139–140, 142; ‘carrier’, concept of 132, 135–136, 138–140, 142, 144, 151–152; elementary building 132, 144, 156; open and closed cells 144, 146, 155; space syntax analysis 131, 133–134; transitional space 93, 139–144, 150–152, 154, 194 Aðalstræti, Iceland 91 adolescents 13, 194 Aggersborg, Denmark 134 agriculture 1, 6, 11–14, 24, 27, 70, 112, 123–124, 126–127, 165, 192 amber 18, 27, 29, 104, 106, 108, 110, 113–114, 123–124, 141, 213–218, 226–227, 233 animals 5, 11–12, 27, 31, 33, 39, 48, 67, 81–82, 95, 103, 117, 128, 146, 152, 161, 166, 168, 170, 173, 175–176, 197–198, 212 Annagassan, Co. Louth 17, 23, 26–27, 29–30, 38 antiquarianism 1, 30, 58–59, 186 apprenticeships 13–14, 126 archaeobotany 151 architecture, vernacular 129, 131, 175 artefact distribution 18, 103–130, 151, 207; tables of 212, 213–236 Arhus, Denmark 35 assemblages 7, 17–18, 29, 34, 43, 48, 66–67, 91, 104, 106–110, 113, 119, 122, 126, 130, 141 Athelstan, king of England 52 ARSNY (archaeological site) 26, 28 axes 3, 34, 123, 189

Ballinderry, Co. Offaly 191 Ballywee, Co. Antrim 55 Barrow, river 191 beads 33, 104, 106–107, 112, 114 Beginish, Co. Kerry 23, 25, 68–69, 99 Berg, Norway 34 Bergen, Norway 69, 103, 109 Birka, Sweden 28, 33, 40–41, 49, 69 blacksmithing 104, 122 boat nails 123 bone-working 66, 106, 109–111, 113–114, 117–119, 122–124 Borg, Norway 82, 99, 103, 134–135, 178 Bornais, Scotland 103 boundaries, property 15, 18–19, 25, 31, 38, 44–46, 49, 57, 59, 61, 63, 65, 70, 76, 78, 94, 126, 131–132, 152, 157–159, 164–170, 177, 179–181, 187, 191–192, 195–197, 199, 204–205, 207; fences 19, 31, 34, 45–46, 57, 63, 65, 82, 157–158, 164–171, 174, 176, 179–181, 192, 195, 197, 200, 202, 207; ‘micro-’ 95, 136, 140 Bray Head, Co. Kerry 23, 68–69, 190 Bretha Comaithchesa 170 Brian Boru, high king of Ireland 53 bridges 39, 55, 57, 63, 65–66, 190–191, 193 Bristol, England 40 bronze-casting 41 Buckquoy, Orkney 26 building typology, Hiberno-Norse 3–6, 7, 76 burials 1, 3, 13, 45, 48, 58, 80, 109, 186–187, 199, 208; furnished 27, 30–31, 34, 38–39, 53, 98, 109, 126, 162 byres (animal pens) 5, 38, 52, 93, 146, 152, 159, 164, 166, 168, 175–176, 198

Index  269 camps, winter 26–28, 43 Canterbury, England 56 caring 13, 16, 18, 106, 125–126, 130 castles 8, 66, 75, 134; see also Dublin Castle under Dublin cellars 7, 18, 56, 68, 72, 75–77, 177 Chapelizod, Co. Dublin 189 Cherrywood, Co. Dublin 23, 25–26, 68–69, 146, 187–188, 193 Chester, England 40, 56, 76 children 11–15, 48–50, 95, 98, 106, 112, 117, 130, 143, 146–147, 162; burials of 48, 162 chronicles 2–3 Church Island, Co. Kerry 69 churches 8, 55, 57–58, 62, 66, 69, 75, 98, 161, 193, 195, 208 cisterns 173; see also waste management Cille Pheadair, Scotland 92, 99, 103 climate change 1, 207 Clonmacnoise, Co. Offaly 40, 55 Clonmacnoise, Annals of 29 Clontarf, battle of (1014) 162 coins 1, 52–53, 106, 124–125 comb-making 30, 173 construction methods 25, 27, 41, 80–81, 84, 99, 175; post-and-wattle 1, 4–6, 7, 18, 23, 35, 38, 41, 45, 49, 51, 56–59, 61–63, 65, 67, 70, 72, 75–79, 81–85, 94–95, 99, 129, 143, 146, 148, 150, 166, 168–171, 175, 179, 195, 197, 202–203, 206; sillframe 7; stone 5, 77, 96, 177, 197–199; sunken-floored 7, 18, 23, 35, 48–49, 56, 61, 68, 72, 76, 126, 175, 177, 203 cooking 18, 29–30, 35, 91, 96, 98–99, 106, 124, 125, 128, 130, 133, 142 coopering 152, 154 Cork, Co. Cork 1, 4, 7, 8–9, 18–19, 23, 61–67, 72, 75–77, 79, 81–82, 92, 136, 165–166, 169–171, 175–176, 188–189, 191, 193–194, 203–204, 206, 209; Barrack Street 63, 65; Beamish and Crawford Brewery 63, 66–67; Hanover Street 63; St Finbarre’s Cathedral 62–63, 193; St Laurence’s church 66; South Island 63, 65, 189, 193; South Main Street 63, 65–67, 75–76, 78, 92, 165, 170, 175, 191, 194, 203; Tuckey Street 63; Washington Street 63 crannogs 65, 172, 188–189 Crith Gabhlach 144

Danelaw 135 dating, archaeological 2–3, 23, 25, 34, 208; dendrochronological 2, 52; radiocarbon 2–3, 30–31, 61, 66 Deer Park Farms, Co. Antrim 81–82, 104, 143–144, 146–147, 155–156, 178 Denmark 35, 41, 43, 84, 94, 127, 135 deposits: of animal skulls 82, 161–162; foundation 82, 85, 111, 162, 202; placed 34, 82, 111, 161–162; ritual 34, 53, 82, 87, 91, 109, 161–162, 202 desire lines/paths 172 doorways 27, 56, 65, 68, 84, 87–88, 95, 98, 100, 119, 129, 131–133, 135–136, 138–140, 142–144, 146, 150–152, 155, 166, 170, 176, 200, 206; jambs 62, 68, 80–82, 84, 87, 95, 98, 139, 146, 179; orientation of 139, 176; thresholds 1, 85, 87–88, 95, 136, 139–140, 149, 150, 207 drains 27, 119, 169–170, 172, 180, 197–198 Dublin, Co. Dublin: Átha Cliath (ford of the hurdles) 30, 189; Aungier Street 72, 74, 76, 177, 192, 203; Back Lane 58, 82; Banks of 17, 33, 38–39, 46, 57, 61, 63, 70, 189, 198, 203; Black Pool (South Great Georges Street) 3, 30–34, 36, 38–39, 41, 43–46, 48–52, 56, 70, 72, 158, 189, 203; Castle 53, 57, 72; Castle Street 53, 81, 166; Chancery Lane 30, 46, 49, 191–192; Christchurch Cathedral 57–58, 62, 194, 198; Christchurch Place 3, 38, 45–46, 53, 56–57, 70, 76, 93, 125, 159, 160, 164, 168, 176, 199, 203; Church Street 57, 70; Commons Water 72, 164, 192–193; Coombe, the 47, 72, 73, 164, 168–169, 175, 191–193, 195, 203; Crow Street 58; Dyflinarskiri 186; Fishamble Street 18, 35, 52, 56–57, 70, 80, 82–83, 85–87, 92, 96, 103–104, 105, 109, 123–125, 128, 130, 136, 141, 148, 149, 151–152, 153, 158–159, 162, 163, 164–167, 169–172, 175, 177, 179, 195–200, 203, 206–208; Golden Lane 30; Hammond Lane 72, 164, 167, 173, 174, 192, 203; High Street 3, 35, 57, 70, 80, 93, 125, 163, 164, 197, 199; Islandbridge 30, 189; Kilmainham 30, 189; Long Stein (Long Stone) 58, 195; longphort of 17, 26, 29–31, 38,

270 Index 43–44, 52, 158; Meeting House Square 58; mint of 55–57, 77, 195; Oxmantown 70, 192; Parliament Street 35, 38, 45, 48, 49, 51–52, 63, 158–159, 203; pre-Viking 30; Ross Road 52, 57; St Mary’s 198; St Michael le Pole, church of 30, 62, 191; St Michan’s church 57, 72; St Olave’s church 57; St Thomas’ Abbey 193; Slighe Dála 30, 46, 72, 192–193; see also roads; Slighe Mhór 53, 57, 193; see also roads; South Great Georges Street (Black Pool) 31, 49, 52, 158, 175; Temple Bar West 3, 29–31, 34–38, 37, 38–39, 41–46, 48, 49, 49–53, 56, 58, 70, 76, 80–83, 85–86, 92, 95, 123, 128, 141, 158–159, 161–162, 164, 166, 168–170, 175–177, 196–197, 203; Thingmotte 55, 58; Trinity College 58; wall of 58, 62, 66, 70, 199; Werburgh Street 38, 52–53, 56, 70, 76, 96, 159, 160, 166, 176, 179; Winetavern Street 3, 35, 57–58, 70, 163, 197, 203; Wood Quay 3, 8, 52, 58, 103, 186, 194, 208 Dublin Mountains 107, 185, 189 elderly people 14, 129, 143 emporia 9–10, 28–29, 43–45, 50, 69, 103– 104, 110 farming see agriculture farmsteads 5, 156, 178, 197, 201, 204 feasting 82, 107, 127 feminism 209 Finglas, Co. Dublin 187 flood banks 38–39, 50, 52, 164 floors 95–98 food production 10, 28, 48, 93, 106, 127–130 fords 30, 65, 189–190, 193 Foremark, England 26 formation processes, site 80, 107–109 fosterage 13 furniture 87, 91, 98–99, 127, 135 Fyrkat, Denmark 13 gardda see yards gates 55, 62, 70, 146, 166, 168, 170, 191, 193–194, 199 gender 4, 11, 16, 18, 33, 106, 118, 127, 204, 207 genotypes, cultural 18, 134, 154–155, 207 glass 27, 29, 66, 104, 107, 108, 117, 123

Granastaðir, Iceland 91 grandparents see elderly people graveyards 199 grazing rights 199 Greenland 126 guilds 14, 72 habitus 5, 181, 201, 203 halls 3, 33, 41, 93, 127, 133, 135, 143, 203 Hamwic, England 9 hearths 1, 5–6, 25, 27, 30–31, 33, 35, 38, 41, 56–57, 65, 68, 75, 79–80, 82, 88, 90–93, 96, 98–100, 106, 110, 117, 127–128, 140–144, 146–147, 149, 150, 155, 158, 161–162, 169, 179, 206, 220 Hedeby, Germany 35, 83–84, 94, 99 Hereford, England 40 ‘high seats’ 33, 93, 98, 150 hoards 1, 3, 41, 186–187, 191 Hofstaðir, Iceland 82, 103, 127, 134–135 horse equipment 55, 107, 123, 124, 223, 226, 228–229, 233–234 horticulture 192 hospitality 91–92, 127, 147 households 11–15; archaeology of 15–17; composition of 11; establishment of 15 houses, Viking Age: aisles of 33, 41, 56, 65, 68, 75, 80–81, 84, 87–88, 92–100, 109–110, 113, 117–119, 134, 140–144, 146, 148, 149, 150–151, 162, 206; appearance of 2, 4, 34, 67, 79, 98, 100, 140, 165, 200–201, 204; construction of see construction methods; corners of 80, 87–90, 92–100, 110, 119, 140– 142, 148, 151, 155, 170, 192; cultural construction of 6, 206; definition of 5–8; engineering of 2, 5, 62, 80; floor plans of 2, 18, 25, 80, 103, 111, 115, 116, 118, 120, 121, 131, 133, 136, 145, 169, 212; foundations of 43, 66, 81–82, 85, 95, 112, 162, 171, 197, 206–207; hearths of see hearths; lifespan of 15, 27, 33–34, 85, 178–179; repairs to 85–86, 88, 93, 98, 123, 124, 129–130, 159, 170, 179–180, 195, 199, 205, 207; roof supports of 6, 7, 31, 33, 35, 41, 56, 67–68, 75–76, 79, 81, 84–85, 87, 94, 98, 129, 146, 150, 177, 225; size of 14–15, 41, 80–81, 87, 92, 119, 158, 170, 202; see also hearths; floors; longhouses; porches húskarls 14

Index  271 Iceland 16, 82, 85, 88, 91, 93, 95, 103, 127, 135, 143–144, 155 imdae 123 infrastructure 17, 46, 50, 57, 69, 195, 203 intersectionality 4, 209 ironworking 166 jet 106–107, 108, 123, 232, 235 jewellery 31, 48, 66, 107, 113–114, 119, 122, 124, 213, 215–216, 218, 220–227, 231, 232–235 John’s river 40, 59, 61–62 see rivers, importance of Kaupang, Norway 4, 17, 28–29, 40–43, 44–45, 48, 49, 69, 77, 103–104, 106–107, 110, 114, 187, 203 keys 98, 107, 110, 112, 119, 123, 215, 217, 219, 223, 226–229, 232, 234 kilns 159 knives 27, 48, 82, 107, 119, 128, 213–214, 217, 222–223, 225, 229, 231–232, 234 Knowth, Co. Meath 55 Knoxspark, Co. Sligo 26, 40 land reclamation 17–18, 39, 45–46, 49–50, 61, 63, 65–66, 158, 165, 188 language 4, 201, 204 latrines (privies) 88, 93, 176 leather working 66, 113, 117, 123–124 Lee, river 63, 188–189; see also rivers, importance of Lemanaghan Bog, Co. Offaly 191 Liffey, river 33–35, 39, 53, 57–58, 62, 70, 158–159, 164, 167, 173, 185, 188–189, 190, 192–193, 198 Limerick, Co. Limerick 8, 67–68, 72; King John’s Castle 68 literacy 11, 13, 86 Loire Valley, France 39 London, England 9, 56, 117, 200 longhouses 3, 5–7, 11, 15, 23, 25, 26, 33–34, 39, 49, 61, 69, 85, 92–93, 95, 134–136, 139–141, 143, 155, 175, 178–179 longphuirt (ship camps) 2–3, 12, 23, 26–31, 33–34, 38–40, 43–44, 46, 52, 158 longships 31, 34, 59 looms 48, 82, 124, 126–127 Mael Sechnaill, high king of Ireland 53, 196 markets 10, 45, 51, 55–56, 58, 66, 193, 195–196, 199 marriage 11–15, 178

Meic Turcaill family 188, 193 metalworking 27, 29, 39, 48, 52, 109 middens 152, 164, 167, 169–170, 173 migration 201; contact zones 201, 203, 205–206; internal and external domain 201–203, 207; migrant communities 201 modelling, 3D 103, 134 monasticism 27, 30, 62–63, 75, 191, 193; see also towns, monastic Moynagh Lough, Co. Meath 33 Mucking-Lingford, England 30 night-time economy 194 Ninch, Co. Dublin 23 nochtaile 170 Normans, arrival of 1, 51, 70, 72, 129, 196 Norway 43, 45, 69, 91, 156 ocáire 123 ogham 86 Óláfr Kvaran (Olav Cuaran), king of Dublin 53 outlaws 13 over-wintering see camps, winter Oxford, England 56 oyster shells 96, 170 paganism 34, 161–162 Paris, France 117 pathways 19, 52, 65, 69, 83, 88, 97, 135, 143, 152, 159, 164–172, 174, 175, 179– 180, 198, 202, 207 Peel, Isle of Man 13 pens, animal see byres permanence 17–18, 23, 43–45, 77, 180, 203 pins 33, 48, 55, 69, 112, 114, 117; thatch 85 pits 19, 27, 30–31, 35, 55, 57, 65, 96, 99, 128, 135, 152, 157, 159, 164–167, 169, 172–173, 174, 179–180, 197, 202; see also middens; cesspits 166, 172– 173, 197 place, sense of 19, 178–181, 205–207 ploughing 35, 123 Poddle, river 34, 39, 45, 52, 58, 62, 158, 185, 188–189 polygyny 13 Pompeii, Italy 200 population 3, 15, 18, 44, 48–49, 51–52, 55, 70, 77, 144, 159, 196–198, 200, 205, 207–208

272 Index porches 80, 88, 93, 95–96, 98–100, 109– 110, 119, 129, 140–142, 149, 150–151, 155, 212 pottery 66, 103, 108, 117, 213–214, 222– 224, 226, 235 privacy 140–142, 144, 146, 156, 179, 202, 207 privies see latrines raiding 1, 3, 23, 27–28, 33, 43–44, 53, 55, 109, 188–189 Ralswiek, Germany 35 raths 127 re-enactors, Viking Age 89, 91, 99, 117, 128, 177 recreation 112, 123, 124; gaming 82, 112, 130, 195; music 112, 114, 123, 130; play 5, 13, 112; toys 12, 112, 117, 124 Repton, England 26 Rhineland 41 Ribe, Denmark 4, 17, 28–29, 40, 42, 43–44, 45–46, 48, 49, 69, 77, 103, 109–110, 122, 124, 187, 195, 203 Rinnaraw, Co. Donegal 23, 25–26, 68 rivers, importance of 19, 39–40, 58–59, 99, 159, 188–191, 198, 201; as flows 188–190 roads 17, 19, 52, 55, 61, 185, 188, 190– 191, 201; definition of 190–191; highways 30, 49, 190–191, 194; ród 191; slighe 191; togher 63, 65, 191 roundhouses 5–6, 15, 26, 33, 67, 81, 143–144, 155–156, 178 Romans 9, 30, 66, 106 runes 69, 127 sailors 15, 58, 91, 201 Scotland 25, 92, 96 seasonality 10, 43, 48, 50, 128, 176 seeresses 13 seiðr (magic) 126 servants 14, 91 Shandon, Co. Waterford 23 Sigtuna, Sweden 28 Sihtric Silkenbeard, king of Dublin 53 silk 41, 106, 108, 117, 122, 221, 231, 235 silver 1, 3, 27, 33, 41, 45, 106, 124–125, 186–187, 191; see also hoards Skallakot, Iceland 135 slavery 1, 14, 58, 91, 112, 147, 199 smoke ceiling 97, 140 spindle whorls 48, 82, 110, 117, 119, 124, 126

storage 33, 76–77, 88, 93–94, 96, 98–99, 110, 114, 117, 124, 128, 142, 166, 173, 175–176 streets 10, 17, 19, 23, 28, 56–57, 59, 61–62, 72, 74–75, 76–77, 144, 152, 172–173, 180, 194–195, 197, 200–202, 204, 206, 208; definition of 57, 166–167, 194–195 suburban development 18, 57, 59, 62, 68, 70, 72, 76, 164–165, 187, 192–193, 203 Suir, river 40, 59, 61–62; see also rivers, importance of Sutton Hoo, England 31 Sweden 41, 135 swords 3 tanning 14, 58, 123, 192 textiles 12, 29, 103–104, 106, 107, 108, 111–114, 117–118, 122–123, 124, 125– 127, 214–221, 223–224, 226–228, 230– 232, 234–235 Tissø, Denmark 127 Torksey, England 26, 28, 38, 65 towns, Viking Age 51–78; burhs 9, 55; defence of 8–9, 17, 33–34, 38–39, 45, 49, 55, 62, 65, 70; definition of 8–10; emporia see emporia; governance of 29, 72, 195–197; hinterland of 10, 19, 28, 41, 123, 128, 185–189, 201; layouts of 8, 43, 152, 163, 164–165, 167, 194; see also streets; locations of 8, 27, 30, 39, 57–58, 99, 189; monastic 8, 10, 40; ‘river towns’ 39–40; walls of 8, 18, 55, 57–58, 61–62, 65–66, 68, 70, 71, 75, 164, 167, 180, 191–194, 195, 197, 199; wics 9; see also streets; suburban development trade 8, 13–14, 28, 39, 44–45, 53, 58, 70, 77, 106–107, 112, 114, 124–127, 144, 187–188, 201 Triads of Ireland 173 Trim, Co. Meath 72 Trondheim, Norway 28 trough querns 26 Truska, Co. Galway 23, 68 Ulster, Annals of 26, 29 unbuilt ground 27, 58, 131, 157, 177, 191, 194, 199, 204 Unn the Deep-Minded 13 urbanism 2, 10, 122, 199, 209; urban environment 6, 19, 170, 180–181, 185, 195, 199, 202; urban habitat 19, 197–199; urban identity 201–203; urban networks 122, 192; urban maturity 18, 55, 57

Index  273 Victorian era 11, 177, 204 Viking Age, Irish, definition of 1–2; dating of 2–3 Vikings, definition of 3–5 warriors 1, 12–13, 15, 34, 46, 91, 201, 208 waste management 172–173, 195–196 water supplies 72, 189, 192 watermills 66 Waterford, Co. Waterford 1, 4, 7, 8–9, 18–19, 23, 27–28, 40, 47, 59–62, 65–66, 72, 75–77, 81–82, 84, 92, 136, 145, 147–151, 164, 169, 171–172, 175–177, 191–192, 194, 206, 209–210; Arundel Square 62, 76; Bailey New Street 59; Barronstrand Street 62, 81–82, 165, 167, 192; Deanery Gardens 59, 61; High Street 61; Lady Lane 61; Peter Street 47, 61–62, 68, 75, 78, 92, 95, 128, 147–151, 155, 164, 166–167, 175–176, 179, 203; Reginald’s Tower (Dundory) 59, 61, 194 weapons 1, 12–13, 31, 33–34, 48, 107, 112–114, 122, 124, 215–216, 219–221, 224, 226–228, 231–232, 234–235 weaving 48, 58, 81, 117, 119, 126, 130, 161 weights 1, 27, 48, 82, 107, 112–114, 122, 124–125, 124, 126, 187, 215–217, 224, 229, 232–233, 235 wells 55, 99, 169, 173, 200 wetlands 65, 191, 198 Wexford, Co. Wexford 4, 6, 8, 67, 72, 176, 210; Bride Street 85

whalebone 26, 106, 108, 114, 117, 216, 222, 236 wharves 43 whetstones 69, 119 whistles 112, 114, 123, 124 Whitby, England 107 Whithorn, Scotland 96 Wicklow Mountains 29, 48, 58, 107 widows 13, 15 Winchester, England 9 Woodstown, Co. Waterford 3, 17, 23, 26–30, 34, 38, 40, 49, 59 women, role of 11–13, 18, 48–50, 112–113, 118, 125–126, 130, 146, 162, 200; see also gender work practices 12, 18, 126, 130, 207; gendered 18, 204, 207; productive activities 18, 43, 45, 48, 58, 93, 99, 106, 110, 113, 117–119, 122–124, 126, 130, 177, 192; maintenance activities 18, 44, 46, 70, 85, 123, 125–130, 161, 179–180, 191, 195–196, 199, 204, 207; visible/ invisible 123–130 workshops 10, 41, 44, 67, 110, 114, 117, 119, 126, 164, 171, 176 yards (gardda) 12, 30, 35, 65, 87, 99, 110, 114, 119, 122, 141–142, 146, 151–152, 154, 157, 164–173, 175–177, 196, 200, 202 York, England 40, 42, 56, 99, 109, 112, 126, 162; Coppergate 40, 42, 56, 103, 123, 167, 171–173; Hungate 56