Category: Historic Sites

Norwich Castle Reborn

The last time we had a gander around Norwich Castle’s 900-year Norman keep, it was a hollowed-out shell. When converting the structure from a prison to a museum, the Victorians had ripped out the floors. The 19th-century look certainly had the wow factor and gave the structure a great sense of scale, but it lacked authenticity. Fast-forward to 2025 and, following a five-year, 27.5 million quid transformation by the Royal Palace Reborn Project, visitors can now explore five reinstated floors – from basement to battlements. So we reckoned it deserved a second viewing.

Alongside the remodelled keep, the castle features an assortment of galleries dedicated to local history. We really liked the exhibition dedicated to Boudica, the rebellious Queen of the Iceni who, between 60 and 61 CE, bloodied the noses of the perfidious Romans, torching the embryonic towns of Colchester, St. Albans and London along the way. In the end she and her rebels were crushed, but her heroic struggle has become the stuff of legends.

But we were really there for the main event – the new royal apartments dressed to impress in authentic 12th-century style when the keep was as much a palace as a fortress. What struck me was the gaudiness of the regal decor and trappings. I’ve always thought of the Middle Ages as being draped in drab and dirty earthy colours to match the short, sharp lives of the plebs. But, of course, we’re talking about those at the top of the heap. And what have they always done? Flaunt their wealth and power in glorious Technicolor.

As befits its high-end status, the residence came with all mod cons – a deep freshwater well and a less than freshwater communal toilet – a garderobe in castle-speak – where matters of state would be discussed over a bowel movement and the Groom of the King’s Stool might yell “garde à l’eau” – the possible origin of the modern word ‘loo’ – to unfortunate peasants passing by below.

We were particularly drawn to the centuries-old graffiti carved into the stone walls. Two examples stood out as most poignant: an image resembling a crucifixion in the shape of a St Andrew’s cross and a face of a woman in a wimple – possibly a nun – whose shiny image looks like it’s been buffed over and over again, perhaps by desperate souls seeking salvation before swinging from a rope. Both etchings speak of a time when, for 400 years, the castle was a prison.

We loved the experience and the excited sprogs around us loved it too. The whole show is a wonderfully vibrant way to bring history to life, for young and old alike.

Our last stop was a tour of the ramparts – opened up to the public for the first time. From here the punters get a tantalising glimpse of the modern city through the gaps – called crenels – between the raised stone blocks of the parapet. It screams “we’re in charge now and don’t you ever forget it”. Shame I left my longbow at home.

And to top it all, the museum is a finalist in the Art Fund Museum of the Year Award 2026. The winner will be announced on the 25th June at a ceremony at the Cutty Sark in London. Fingers crossed! 🤞

A Bird’s Eye View

Recently, I stumbled across a fuzzy aerial view of Loddon Staithe, the inland harbour which divides our sleepy parish of Chedgrave from our larger next-door neighbour. Traditionally, a staithe was a wharf for loading and unloading cargo from wherries – flat-bottom sailing ships – which plied their trade up and down the waterways. Back in the day, it was the best (and often the only) way to get coal to the fire and wheat to the mill. Business was brisk until it was killed off by the unstoppable march of the internal combustion engine. Nowadays, the Staithe is the domain of would-be sailors mucking about in pleasure boats and some fancy houses overlooking the glassy waters with their own private moorings.

Looking at the photo, I was a bit disappointed not to find our small gaff – sadly we’re just out of the picture. So I did a bit of digging and uncovered a hoard of amazing aerial shots, mostly on Flickr from the talented lens of a fella called John Fielding. I found various images – of the Staithe, of Loddon’s grand 15th-century Holy Trinity Church, of Hardley Flood* and (my favourite) a long shot of the River Chet from the Staithe to the Flood. But still no Pansies HQ, though. Sad face 😞

But then I remembered we had an old parish plan which features an image of Chedgrave on the front cover. And lo and behold, here we are, although you’d need a keen eye and a magnifying glass to spot us so I’ve added a red arrow. Now we’re in the picture. Happy face 😁

*Hardley Flood is an area of tidal lagoons and reedbeds providing a spillway for the River Chet and a nationally important bird sanctuary.

Perky Daffodils

Ringed by wonky tombstones, our pretty village church sits on top of a small hill. Called ‘All Saints’ – to cover all the holy bases – the unassuming little building is an eclectic blend of eras – Norman, Georgian, Victorian and modern. The Norman bell tower features a rare folksy thatched roof, and the east window is rumoured to be from Rouen Cathedral, picked up for a song following the French Revolution.

Our micro-cottage nestles at the foot of the hallowed mound, and I pass by the church when popping out for rations. Now and again, I take a stroll around the fir-lined graveyard and while away some me time on a memorial bench. I’m no God botherer, but I find it soulful and restorative, a welcome distraction from a scary world. And now spring has finally sprung, the sight of perky daffodils glowing in the afternoon sun is pretty restorative too.

Dancing Queens No More

As our birthdays are just two weeks apart, each year Liam and I tend to mark them together. Nowadays, as befits our budding dotage, our jollies resemble more of a pensioners’ outing than the bop-til-you-drop of our yesteryears. 2025 also marks me reaching my latest chronological milestone – 65 – so Liam planned some fancy ticklers to get me in the mood. First on the menu was a glass of overpriced plonk in a Canary Wharf wine bar followed by a surprise dinner date with family. We dined on Italian, washed down with copious amounts of gossip and scandal – naughty but nice!

 The next morning Liam took me up this…

… for a full-on full English with a show-stopping view at the Sky Garden. Perched on top of the Leadenhall Building – affectionately known as the Walkie Talkie – the Sky Garden is London’s highest public green space, with panoramic views of the city. It was a gorgeous crisp day with the sun hanging low in the wispy blue, so our snaps aren’t all that. But you get the picture.

After breakfast, we wandered through the City in a vain attempt to burn off the calories, passing ‘the Monument’, the enormous column commemorating the Great Fire of London of 1666, and then across the Thames to Southwark – pronounced suth-erk – via London Bridge. We strolled along the busy Queen’s Walk, passed HMS Belfast and through Hays Galleria before crossing back into the City via Tower Bridge.

Our final destination was St Katharine Docks, immediately downstream from the Tower. Once part of the Port of London, the docks have since been repurposed as a place to work, sleep, shop and sup, centred around an upmarket yachting marina. After a quick gander, we found a place to sink a bottle and watch the world sail by.

Afternoon drinking can be exhausting even for these two old lushes, so it was back to our Westferry digs for a kip. We had to be fresh and fragrant for the main event, which was…

This was our second visit to the breathtaking ABBA Voyage, located by the deliciously named Pudding Mill Lane Station. Our debut performance was in 2023 as part of a birthday bash for the good wife of our local pub’s (now ex) landlord. Back then, we wiggled about like has-been dancing queens to the ageless ABBA classics. This time round we booked comfy seats in the auditorium. This old codger has finally hung up his dad-dancing shoes, much to the relief of all those around. Well, I don’t want to put my back out.

Turkey Street with Bettany Hughes

People who know me know that I love an old ruin. Nothing gets me going more than a pile of ancient tumbledown stones. When I can’t visit ’em, I watch programmes about ’em on the box. And few TV pundits get the sap rising better than classical scholar Bettany Hughes. Buxom Bettany flits and flirts around the Med telling tales of the ancients in a fun and fascinating way. In fact, it was she who first introduced us to Ithaca in her series A Greek Odyssey. We’ve been to Odysseus’ legendary isle twice now, so she really does deserve a medal from the Greek Tourist Board.

Bettany’s latest expedition is Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, a three-part series on Channel 5. In a deliciously vivid and insightful narrative enhanced with the very latest archaeological finds, she walks the viewer through the meagre remains of those once wondrous wonders of yore. We’ve visited three of the sites – The Statue of Zeus at Olympia (carted off centuries ago), The Temple of Artemis in Ephesus (just one forlorn column remains standing) and, of course, the scattered pile of stones that is The Mausoleum of Halicarnassus in present-day Bodrum, our former home town.

Cue the first shameless plug for my second memoir, Turkey Street…

… as Bodrum had always provided refuge to the exiled and the unorthodox, we gambled on getting the going rate for ‘theatrical’ types. Supplemented by Liam’s feeble but endearing attempts at Turkish, the gamble paid off and Hanife the Magnificent, the undisputed matriarch of an old Bodrum family, accepted us and our pink pounds with open hands. We paid our rent and two weeks later moved into Stone Cottage No. 2 on the corner of Sentry Lane and Turkey Street. And so it came to pass that by happy coincidence we found ourselves living on the same road as the Mausoleum of Halicarnassus, one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. ‘I think,’ Liam had said at the time, ‘you would call that a result.’

Chapter 1 – The Garden of Sin

The final episode of Bettany’s epic journey starts with her riding pillion on a scooter driving the wrong way down Turkey Street trying to find the entrance to the ancient site. Imagine our complete surprise and delight as she passed Stone Cottage No. 2 along the way.

Blink and you’ll miss it, so here’s a still with a big yellow arrow indicating our garden wall.

Cue my second shameless plug…

Tired and dripping, I waded past rows of sleeping dolmuş minibuses – ‘dollies’, as Liam called them – and splashed home along Turkey Street. Twenty-three centuries earlier, Alexander the Great had marched along the very same road to wrest old Halicarnassus from the doughty Persians, just before he went on to conquer half the known world. My ambitions were rather more modest: to survive the short stroll in one piece and jump back under the duck down duvet. Like many old Anatolian thoroughfares, Turkey Street was just wide enough for two emaciated camels to pass each other unhindered. This constraint never seemed to trouble the locals, but for us, motorcades of Nissan tanks flanked by Vespas on amphetamines made for a testing pedestrian experience. Aided by the now-you-see-them-now-you-don’t pavements, death or permanent disability lurked at every twist and turn of the perilous road.

Chapter 2 – Turkey Street

Eventually Bettany found the Mausoleum, bringing the scanty ruins to life more than I did when I wrote about them back in the day. Thank you, Bettany, you brought back such monumental memories.

Journey to the Centre of the World

Our final sleepover on our three-day Greek odyssey was in a slightly faded, old school hotel with gaudy trappings that wouldn’t have looked out of place in one of Saddam Hussein’s flashy palaces. Nevertheless, our room was clean and comfortable, and meals were wholesome and plentiful.

Well-fed and watered, we journeyed to Delphi, the sacred precinct dedicated to Apollo and considered by the ancient Greeks to be the navel of the world. In fact, the name ‘Delphi’ likely comes from the ancient Greek word ‘delphys’, meaning ‘womb’. As such, Delphi held unique religious and political influence, attracting pilgrims from across the Mediterranean. It also attracted their cash and ‘corporate’ bungs from city states competing for holy favours. Ye Gods, those ancients knew a thing or two about raking in the cash and making a mint.

The sanctuary was most famous for the Oracle of Apollo, whose cryptic prophecies would be delivered through the Pythia (a priestess) after she sniffed something she shouldn’t. People could wait months for a chance to consult the pretty-boy deity, but a sneaky backhander might get you to the front of the queue.

The entire enterprise was closed down by the puritanical Theodosius I in 391 – the very same Christian Emperor who called time on the Olympic Games two years later. I bet he was a laugh at a party. Just like Olympia, it’s hard to visualise how magnificent the sanctuary once looked in its heyday. But Delphi’s position, cradled by lush pine-clad mountains, is even more spectacular, and the museum even more impressive.

After more tales of the ancients from our guide, Demitrios, it was time to head back to the big city. But not before a lunchtime pit stop in Arachova, a cute little town of narrow streets and stone houses clinging to the slopes of Mount Parnassos.

Our grand tour may have reached the end of the road, but we’re bringing home the lurv with our very own piece of classical Greece – an image of Aphrodite, a memento to hang on a wall. It’s not the real thing, obviously. No smuggling out priceless antiquities in our hand luggage. No, we picked her up in the museum shop. Now for a well-earned rest from our sweaty labours. Aegina’s up next.

Let The Ancient Games Begin

After a restful night and a bountiful breakfast buffet, we were back on the road for our morning reccy of the sanctuary of Olympia, birthplace of the Olympic Games. Just like their modern reincarnation, the games were held every four years and featured a series of athletic competitions. However, rather than the pursuit of national glory, with all that jingoistic flag-waving, the first games were a religious festival to honour Zeus, top god on Mount Olympus.

According to Demetrios, our all-knowing guide, the entire enterprise was a licence to mint money, with gifts to the gods flooding in from across the Greek world. Unlike most Olympiads these days, it made the hosts filthy rich.

The male competitors always competed in the buff. Imagine the sight of sweaty fellas in their birthday suits dripping in olive oil without a jock strap between them, their family jewels swaying from side to side like weights on a grandfather clock – surely they must have done themselves a mischief. But I guess that was the price they paid to be poster boys of their time, to be feted and fantasised about.

Women were not permitted to participate in the main games but had their own, separate events known as the Heraea Games, in honour of Zeus’ missus, Hera. They had to be unmarried, and unlike the ripped blokes, they kept their kit on.

The games ran for about a thousand years, from 776 BCE until 393 CE, when they were abolished by that Christian zealot, the Roman Emperor Theodosius I. The buttoned-up killjoy probably thought all that homoerotic nude wrestling was the work of the Devil.

It takes imagination to visualise the once magnificent temples and civic buildings. Nevertheless, the setting is stunning. And the museum is pretty good too. Liam was thrilled to be able to place his big toe on the ancient starting line at the very first Olympic Stadium. He kept his knickers on, much to the disappointment/relief (delete according to taste) of the gathering crowd.

Postcard from the Peloponnese

Our three-day whistle-stop tour of some of Greece’s most famous historic sites was both tiring and inspiring in equal measure. We were blessed to be in a small group of just five in our (mercifully) air-conditioned minibus. Our fellow travellers were all Australians. I like Aussies. We share a similar irreverent sense of humour.

Demetrios, our well-versed tour guide – an archaeologist by trade – really knew his onions. He spun a good yarn, bringing the ancients to life by blending fabulous fact with fantastic fiction. Throughout our odyssey, he told tales of war and heroism, murder and mayhem, loyalty and treachery, greed and generosity, morals both highbrow and gutter – a no-holes-barred mythical soap opera on acid. All the vices of gods and humans were laid bare, literally in the case of the many fine chiselled statues of beautiful young men with their willies hacked off by scandalised Christians.

Our first stop was the Corinth Canal – not an ancient site per se; it was completed in the 1880s. But it was a welcome comfort break after the long slog escaping the urban sprawl of Athens. And the canal, cut through the hard rock of the narrow Isthmus of Corinth that separates the Peloponnese from the mainland, is impressive, despite being a bit of a white elephant.

Second stop was the spectacular and well-preserved 4th-century BCE theatre at Epidaurus, with its reputation for almost perfect acoustics – ably demonstrated by Demetrios as we stood in the orchestra pit. The echo was remarkable and a little spooky. Unsurprisingly, the theatre is still in use today.

We pit-stopped in modern Epidaurus for a bite. It’s a handsome port town on the Saronic Gulf. Sadly, it was way too hot to explore, though we thought the old British classic phone box in the café was a welcome touch.

Fourth stop was Mycenae, an acropolis almost as old as time itself, sitting on a hilltop 900 feet above sea level. An entire period of Greek civilisation between around 1,600 BCE to about 1,100 BCE is named after it, so it’s no wonder it’s a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

Mycenae is inextricably linked to Homer’s Iliad and the fanciful tales of Troy. Arguably, the most impressive structure still standing is a beehive-shaped building with a pointed dome known in modern popular folklore as The Tomb of Agamemnon, the legendary warrior king who led the Greeks during the Trojan War. It’s highly unlikely to actually be the treacherous old bugger’s final resting place, but never let the truth get in the way of a good myth to lure in the eager punters like me. Liam said I looked like an over-excited boy scout as I gazed in awe at the 3,300-year-old roof.

After a sweaty and exhausting first day, we were only too pleased to be dropped off at our digs for the night, just in time for a well-earned dip, followed by a glass or three of tasty local plonk to watch the sun go down.

Tomorrow, Olympia beckons. Let the ancient games begin.

Greek Intermission

While we’re away on our Greek odyssey clambering over old tumble-down stones trying not to break a hip, here’s a few of my pics that didn’t quite make the cut, mostly taken in or on the way to one drinking den or t’other. Yamas! 🥂

Our Greek Odyssey

I’ll be off-air for a week and a bit. We’re embarking on our very own Greek odyssey – by coach – taking in the ancient sites at Epidaurus, Mycenae, Olympia and Delphi, topped and tailed with overnights in Athens. I’m a sucker for an old ruin. After our exhausting reconnoitre, we’ll be recuperating on Aegina for a few days, just a short ferry hop from the Port of Piraeus.

It’s our debut pensioners’ coach outing. At this late stage of our life cycle, I can see a pattern developing. Many fridge magnets will be purchased.