The plant hunters of Suffolk
Cedars of Lebanon on Hardwick Heath in Bury St Edmunds

Suffolk is an unusual place, irregularly defined more by water than its land which has presented a peculiar and unpredictable challenge for various invading forces. However it has also been the home of people who travel far beyond its confines in their own lifetime and the results of these expeditions can be seen growing in our gardens and parks and town centres.

The tales of the great plant hunters are epic, ranging across seas and the unmapped heart of continents. Often centred upon the grand male narrative, these treks were deemed unsuitable for women although some did manage to penetrate the closed world of botany and plant collection. Sir Joseph Hooker, Director of the Royal Botanic Gardens, of whom we will hear more from later, said this, barely 100 years ago: “Gardening, taken up as a hobby when all the laborious work can be done by a man is delightful, but as a life’s work [for a woman], it is almost an impossible thing.”

Think of David Douglas who sought out and introduced the flowering currant (Ribes sanguineum), Escholtzia (Californian poppy) and lupins and ended up dying after falling into a pit designed to trap wild bullocks in Hawaii and Alice Eastwood who rescued the herbarium at California Academy of Sciences after the building was felled by the big San Francisco earthquake and fire, by clinging to the banisters. Then there’s Paul Winder and Tom Hart-Dyke who went to Columbia and Panama in search of the rare orchids and were were kidnapped by Farc guerillas, remaining captive for nine months in more recent times: this has never been a sedate and genteel past-time. Plant fever, that glint eye obsession for discovering the new, whether that be a plant or place to forage for them has driven humans to trade in and import plants since the Romans first imported plums, walnuts and roses into Britain and elaborate preparations were made to store and transport plant material home, from Wardian cases to mule trains clinging precariously to scree covered mountain slopes.

Two of the countries most famous botanists and plant hunters came from Halesworth in Suffolk: Sir Joseph Dalton Hooker who went on to become scientific confidant to Charles Darwin and became Director of Kew Gardens between 1865-1185 and his father, Sir William Jackson Hooker who was Kews first Director and Regius Professor of Botany at Glasgow University.

Joseph Hooker combined a thirst for discovery and an inexhaustible hunger for travel with rigorous taxonomic innovation and investigation which soon led to a developing reputation as the foremost botanist of his time. Beginning his career as an assistant surgeon on HMS Erebus for Antarctic expeditions (a way of overcoming a lack of fiscal means by which to fund his own expedition), he roamed the southern oceans, India and the Himalayas, even getting himself imprisoned by the Rajah of Sikkim for ranging far into territories he had received no invitation for- Tibet. If you wander around a plant nursery of a weekend, check out the labels on Rhododendrons because the varieties with ‘Hookerii’ as part of their Latin name were his Indian discoveries: 25 of them in total and Hooker was hugely responsible for the passion the Victorians had for these plants. The restored Victorian gardens at Nowton Park in Bury St Edmunds and the Edwardian gardens in Brandon are both home to giant specimens, their apparent domesticity and British suburban ubiquitousness giving little clue of the real dangers involved in bringing them here. Hooker adored his plants but he was no romantic with his head in the clouds and he didn’t suffer fools either: he collected plant specimens whose discovery really put him through the wringer. As he commented about the rhododendrons one day, ” If your shins were as bruised as mine after tearing through the interminable rhododendron scrub of 10 – 13 feet you’d be as sick of the sight of these glories as I am.”

Joseph Dalton Hooker

In those extensive diaries now being digitised at Kew, Hooker frequently expounded on the arduous nature of his expeditions: “I staid [sic] at 13000ft very much on purpose to collect the seeds of the Rhododendrons & with cold fingers it is not very easy… Botanizing, during March is difficult. Sometimes the jungle is so dense that you have enough to do to keep hat & spectacles in company, or it is precipitous… certainly one often progresses spread-eagle fashion against the cliff, for some distance, & crosses narrow planks over profound Abysses, with no hand-hold whatever” as he wrote to William Hooker from Darjeeling in 1849. Joseph took few luxuries with him: apart from the tools of his trade he packed a supply of cigars for each evening and a dog, a Tibetan Mastiff named Kinchin. A devoted companion, the dog one day fell to its death and was swept away by a river.

Described as ‘an interrogator of the natural world’, Hookers work helped to support Darwin’s Theory of the Origin of Species because he understood botanical context- he interpreted what he saw around him and his own publications were many. Containing exquisite botanical illustrations, works such as the Rhododendrons of Sikkim Himalaya and the Colonial floras of New Zealand and British India culminated in The Genera Plantarum, prepared with co-author George Bentham over more than 25 years and published in 1883. It has been called the most outstanding botanical work of the century, describing over 7,500 genera and nearly 100,000 species. The work underpinned the Bentham-Hooker model for plant classification.

Joseph’s father, William, the first Director of Kew Gardens came to Halesworth to take up the position of superintendent of the brewery, staying for eleven years until his botanical passion drive him to London and his directorial post at Kew Gardens. His son clearly followed in his footsteps and mighty ones they were too: he increased the size of the garden from 11 to 600 acres and oversaw the construction of the Palm House. On 1 November 1865, Joseph succeeded his father as Director of Kew Gardens, aged just 48.

One of my personal favourites of all his plants is the Winter flowering Sarcococca ‘Hookeriana’ which is possessed of an understated appearance but a fragrance that is anything but. Tiny lime green pendulous blossoms, dangling from the undersides of leathery leafed branches give off a powerfully spicy and verdant sweet scent which wends its way down our garden and into the kitchen whenever we open the door. Often used by municipal gardeners because it is tough and low maintenance, the Sarcococca often makes its home outside multi-storey car parks, on median strips of urban clearways and on council office borders and most of us walk past without paying it a moments notice.

But unlike many of you, when I think of the plants that best typify Suffolk, what does not spring to mind are romantic images of rose bowers, cottage gardens or woodlands with great hazy swathes of bluebells although all these are without doubt easily found in our county and much celebrated. I think of the Scots Pines and Cedars of Lebanon standing sentinel in the grounds of the West Suffolk Hospital and on the neighbouring Hardwick Heath. They populate the ancient and characteristic twisted pinelines of the Brecklands (‘broken lands’) and tall cedars grow among the yews in St Mary’s churchyard in Barking near Needham Market, a legacy of its 19th century vicar, Robert Uvedale. He was another botanical enthusiast who collected seeds from around the world and was believed to have planted one of the trees at his former home, Uvedale Hall nearby after a pupil brought the seeds back from Jerusalem.


Around 1860, Joseph Hooker developed a yen to visit the Cedars of Lebanon that grew in the eponymous country and in Syria too, despite strong advice to not go because of the civil war that had broken out between the Druze and Christians. Many thousands had been massacred. Even Darwin counselled against it, telling Hooker ” ‘For God’s sake do not go and get your throat cut. Bless my soul! I think you must be a little insane.” As he arrived in Damascus in the October, his diary told of what he encountered: ” The Christian quarter had been reduced to ruins piled high, heaps of mutilated corpses” but the expedition found, what they believed to be the only remaining group of these trees on Mount Lebanon, about 400 of them with an estimated age was 350-400 years. Hooker collected the seeds and added to the UK population of a tree which has gone on to contribute so much character to our landscapes, both rural and urban. Its shape is etiolated and those distal flat level branches with their clearly defined clouds of bristly leaves are well suited to the coastal regions where it provides tall shade for the wild ponies that graze there and shelters the acid yellow gorse that perfumes the late spring air. Reminiscent of the region from which it originated and mentioned in the bible, “the righteous will flourish like a palm tree, they will grow like a cedar of Lebanon” (Psalm 92 v12), the tree has been a great success and is my living memorial to Joseph Hooker.

Hooker’s own botanical illustrations straddle the fields of art and science being both wondrous objet d’art and scientific record. The history of botanical painting and illustration stretches back centuries, being used for medicinal purposes (Culpeppers) alongside its aesthetic and decorative properties. In Santon Downham, the Iceni Botanical Artists now offer tutorial workshops free of charge to the public at the village hall, funded by the HLF ‘Breaking New Ground’ project. There are guest speakers, the chance to gain skills in watercolour and receive tuition on how best to depict local flora from Breckland wild flowers to its fungi and pine tree landscapes. Artists can tap into a landscape suffused with stories which stretch back to the Stone Age: rabbit farming, glacial pingos, flint mines and over 12,845 species of plants and animals.

Yay! Best Food Writing 2015 will be with us soon. #reviews


“Anthony Bourdain, John T. Edge, Jonathan Gold, Francis Lam, Ruth Reichl, Calvin Trillin, Alice Waters. These are just some of the celebrated writers and foodies whose work has appeared in Best Food Writing over the past fifteen years. Whether written by an established journalist or an up-and-coming blogger, the essays offered in each edition represent the cream of that year’s crop in food writing. And 2015 promises to uphold the same high standards with a dynamic mix of writers offering provocative journalism, intriguing profiles, moving memoir, and more.”

I own every single one of the Best Food Writing series and have read each one countless times. Editor Holly Hughes proves there is still vigour in food writing with her annual collation of though provoking, quirky and intelligent pieces from food writers both well known and less so. I eagerly await the publication of each annual volume because although I consider myself a voracious consumer of the genre, even I will not be able to access the very best writing, scattered as it is across all manner of journals, newspapers, blogs, websites and magazines all over the globe. This really does bother me.

My own collection.

Hughes provides a trustworthy food-wire service in book form. There’s always some standouts and in this collection, Tim Hanni’s ‘Maverick Wine Guru’ is one of them. Published by the Sacramento Bee (nope, me neither), he develops upon a phenomenon I first encountered via Jeffry Steingarten’s essay- the supertaster- and he applies this to the world of wine tasting, turning some popular pre-conceptions on their head as he does it. Ever wondered why Zinfandel, Asti and Moscato are the only wines you are able to palate? Well Hanni might be onto an explanation here.

Sara Deseran’s ‘Kidsnobs’ is another fresh angle on a food movement we see more and more and have (probably) our own private views upon- that of the super engaged child foodie. Relating her own experiences of children who are obsessively interested in food and the acquisition of food related experiences, she asks us to draw our own line and is honest in her appraisal of her own children and the fact that in their case, nurture is all and down to both parents working in the industry. Where does the education and empowerment stop and the over indulged, over privileged entitled show off-ness start?

This is a world where top chefs are both celebrated and self define as rock gods and this anthology is heavy on chef profiles. These always polarise readers and reviewers with some complaining that the focus of these anthologies has become too food nerdish. However if Hughes is to accurately reflect the culinary world, the cult of cheff-ly personality cannot be ignored. So we have Blue Hills’ leftover pop up dinners where fish skin, old noodles and veg peelings are fought over in a reservations war and charm food critic Pete Wells. Underpinning this is the very relevant and important subject of reducing food waste in the hospitality business and Blue Hill aims to redefine what is waste and what is not (clue: everything is and could be on the table). In an amusing addendum to the fragile chef ego, there’s a piece about Wylie Dufresne’s reaction to a comment he overheard in his restaurant which referred to chefs as pussies. and we revisit Leah Chase, queen of NOLA’s creole cuisine. Chase survived Katrina and rebuilt her restaurant in Treme (as in the popular TV series) and her place is top of my list when I visit New Orleans next Spring. She is the quietly confident antithesis of people like Dufresne, Ramsay and Batali.

We zoom in closer to the cultural effects of the hospitality business too with a very important essay by Todd Kliman on the informal colour bar which still operates in DC restaurants despite the beliefs of restaurateurs that they have addressed this. Seemingly it is not enough to paint a mural of black cultural heroes on your establishment’s wall unless you like reminding patrons of motivational decor pasted up on their high school halls. Consideration is given as to why sushi bars and other specialised cuisines might not immediately attract black customers historically (lack of familiarity, their own family dining history- in the all too recent past they simply weren’t able to eat in ‘genre’ restaurants because of Jim Crow), something that is a thorny subject and hasn’t been properly addressed before.

It’s not just about the high minded and highly intended either. There’s the down home reminder that home cooking can be an exhausting merry go round of WTF shall we cook ( Molly Watson and Tamar Haspel) and other writers take us on a gastro-reminder about why Taco Bell rules (John DeVore) and long standing foodie figures Jane & Michael Stern extoll the virtues of Nashville’s hot chicken. Seemingly this latter subject has not yet been done to death as they manage to squeeze further juicy copy from this topical bird. DeVore hits us with a startling and frankly ludicrous assertion: he declares that Taco Bell has the best Mexican food? After I had finished spluttering in horror, I carried on reading only to find a fairly convincing argument (albeit tongue in cheek). In a few pages we move from dude to a heartwarming conclusion. I’m not convinced though. We had less dude from Bourdain too as he writes about food traditions with an ode to the clams of his childhood which he is now handing down to his own young daughter. I like this Bourdain, who appears less preoccupied with getting into stupid dick swinging competitions with other chefs which can come across as bullying.

I can never read too much about coconut cream pie and thankfully Kim Severson cannot write enough about it either. A mothers cookbook shares more than just recipes and I imagine every American home has a coconut pie with a story attached. This is Kim’s.

Sarah Grey’s  essay, ‘Friday Night Meatballs: How to Change Your Life with Pasta,” was first published in Serious Eats and utterly deserves its inclusion here with vivid and homely touches where the scene is set for a family meal, conceived in a rush of toy tidying, napkins folded by her daughter and a table set with fourth generation china. It celebrates red sauce, reminds us that freelancing can add to loneliness – especially when you factor in the difficulties of maintaining a social life when you have small kids. Friday Night Meatballs transcend a lot of cultural barriers to communal eating, Grey discovered, and she offers up warmth in spades as she writes about her own solutions to all of these: “The house will be messy. There might be card and/or board games. There might be good Scotch. You might be asked to read picture books. You might make new friends. We’ll just have to find out. This is our little attempt to spend more time with our village. You’re invited.”

Long may Holly Hughes reign over the world of food writing anthologies. These, alongside the Cornbread Nation series, are my absolute favourite. I cannot recommend them highly enough.

Best Food Writing, edited by Holly Hughes is published by Perseus Books Group, De Capo Press. 

Cathedral kneelers: tales of Suffolk villages

Image from :

This piece was previously published on the InSuffolk site (find them at @insuffolk on twitter).

Suffolk, the curious county, has its well known tales of saints and martyrs, of a great book that underpins the laws of the land and towering church edifices where queens lie. We have villages under the sea, a ghost writer who once lived in a spectre infested village and roaming black dogs with eyes of carmine fire. There are stories of tamer beasts too: of binary patterned Dalmatians who drank from a church horse trough as they searched for their stolen 101 puppies; the poor entombed mummified cats found walled up in Tudor buildings throughout the county and the gentle giant working horses that ploughed our fields. We have curious place names (Finger Bread Hill, Beggars Bush, Wherstead Ooze, Burnt Dick Hill and Smear Marshes) and architecture that spits in the face of straightness (the crinkle crankle walls of Bramfield and Tudor squew whiffness of Lavenham) but look a little harder and you will find thousands of smaller stories too within this big, bold narrative. These stories are frequently overshadowed by the pomp and circumstance of history and the pew kneelers at the cathedral of St James in Bury St Edmunds are one such example.

I stumbled upon these accidentally after calling in at the cathedrals newly refurbished Pilgrims Refectory for lunch one Saturday. Having spent a happy half hour making sure they were all placed the right way -all the better to admire the many, many crewel stitches that go into their designs- I looked up to see some cathedral staff grinning broadly at my apparently, slightly barking behaviour. After seeing them in such close quarters, my curiosity about their inception was peaked.

The kneelers are a relatively modern ‘invention’ because prayer was never supposed to be comfortable and the Christian church did not originally intend to meet our need for comfort; instead inculcating congregants with the sense that the holiest of outcomes (heaven) involved a degree of self sacrifice, denial and subjugation in the face of unheated and cold stone floors. The transaction was not between the worshipper and the church per se, but between them and God and therefore no earthly comforts or comfy intermediary between supplicant, floor and their God was offered.

Times move on though and churches, as well as wanting to appear more welcoming, are seeking new ways of embedding themselves into their community and tear down some of the ancient rituals that may intimidate as much as they comfort. People aren’t so attached to formal and old religious emblems of security and belonging, the ways by which churches pandered to their wealthier congregants via ornate tombs, dedicated and reserved pews with high backs to increase the distance between their noble occupants and the ‘great unwashed’ in the pews behind, and richly coloured stained glass windows. Churches are, in effect, advertising and celebrating the ordinary people who once lived and continue to live and work in a parish and they use items such as kneelers to tell their stories.

And what stories! With over five hundred parishes in the Diocese, each kneeler is united by a common theme of colour-the three hues of Suffolk blue which marked a cloth out as originating from the county when it was traded in mainland Europe. The broadcloth trade was already established in Suffolk before the arrival of the Flemish weavers in the 1330s and the main broadcloth area stretched in a roughly trinagular shape between Hadleigh, Sudbury and Bury St Edmunds. The cloth was dyed with woad or indigo and Hadleigh became reknowned for its blue cloth whilst the success of Lavenhams blue serge led to it becoming the 14th richest place in the country by 1524. This is why the kneelers embroidery is set against a Suffolk blue backdrop with the colour representing the Diocese or ‘mother’. Each kneeler is then embroidered with a crewel work design that reflects some aspect of parish history, some traditional and others quirkier.

An online record of church kneelers across the country was set up by Lady Bingham of Cornhill who described them as a form of folk art, one which she says makes up as vast library of information about the interests of innumerable parishes. Unnoticed yet widespread, she sees them as fine examples of folk art and a narrative through craft by local people that is often disregarded by the lofty. The kneelers of the cathedral of Bury St Edmunds are included in this record.

When it was decided to make them, each parish was invited to choose an emblem or motif that symbolised parish and church and said something significant about them. Some motifs possess layer upon layer of folklore and spiritual history spanning centuries and one example of this is the scallop, that ancient symbol of christianity and central to the design of the St James of Dunwich kneeler. The scallop shell is arguably more famously associated with Aldeburgh and the Maggie Hambling sculptural tribute to Benjamin Britten than it is with Dunwich. However the shell itself is a wider symbol of the sea, of pilgrimage and fertility and is seen in paintings such as Boticelli’s ‘Venus’ with its underlying messages about the birth of love and spiritual beauty as a driving force of life. Dunwich’s own loss of one of its churches to the might of the sea acts as poignant counterpart to the scallop shell as a giver of life and facilitator of spiritual rebirth.

The British Museum has a scallop shell shaped lead ampula found in Dunwich that is believed to have originated between 1067-1600- quite a wide period of time but also indicative of the enduring popularity of the motif. Worn on the person, the pilgrim would use it as a flask, to hold water and offer spiritual succour during an arduous trek through the mountains of north west Spain. Today, pilgrims wear scallop shells and are given them as symbolic gift upon their arrival at pilgrimage sites.

The Wall of St James was one of the most important Christian pilgrimages of the Middle Ages and a plenary indulgence could be earned by completing the route- the church at Dunwich takes its name from the saint. The Spanish city of Santiago De Compostela had its beginnings in the shrine of St James the Great which is now in their cathedral and it was the end point of the pilgrimage. There is metaphor in the shell shape too: its deep pleats and grooves meet at a single point on the shell and symbolise the different routes taken and the common goal and it also repesents the pilgrim too. The shells wash up in their thousands on the beaches of Galicia and this is interpreted as the hand of God, guiding and urging pilgrims forward. The body of St James was feared lost to the sea during a furious storm but then the waves gave him up and when he was found prone on the sands, his body was adorned with thousands of tiny scallop shells. There are other tales too, of horses and bridegrooms guiding a boat carrying James’ body to land and in this tale, the horse and rider are encrusted with shells after being feared drowned.

The cathedral cloisters

Now to the village of Boulge which is the burial site of Edward FitzGerald who lies in the churchyard of the small, isolated Church of St Michael & All Angels. His grave is situated next to the FitzGerald family mausoleum, a location that poignantly reflects his decision to not make Boule Hall his home because he chose to live in a thatched cottage on the family estate instead. A friend of Tennyson, Fitzgerald was the translator of The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám from its original Persian alongside some of fellow Suffolk poet George Crabbe’s poems. The Boulge parish has chosen for its kneeler, a single bloom of Fitzgeralds Persian Rose, the Rosa Damascene of the Caspian with over 800 years of intoxicatingly perfumed history to commemorate its literary resident whose grave is near to a rose bush which bears this dedication: “This Rose tree raised in Kew Gardens from seed brought by Wm. Simpson, Artist-Traveller from the grave of Omar Khayyam at Nashipur was planted by a few admirers of Edward Fitzgerald in the name of the Omar Khayyam Club on the 7th October 1893′′. On a trip to Nashipur in Persia, Simpson had previously gathered a pocketful of rosehips from roses growing near to the tomb of Omar Khayyam which he sent to Fitzgeralds publisher. This resulted in a rose described by Grant Allen as “Long with a double fragrance may it bloom, This Rose from Iran on an English stock”, and a local nursery Notcutts has helped conserve stocks by budding and grafting new plants.

Like Boulge, St John the Baptist at Onehouse has gone for a non indigenous plant and embroidered a Honey Locust Tree on its kneeler, a tree which is very closely associated with its saintly namesake. The Book of Matthew tells us that John survived year round by eating the edible fruit of the Honey Locust “…and his food was locusts and wild honey”(chapter 3, verse 4) and not live bugs which has been a common misinterpretation. Locust populations in Israel and the Holy Lands are strongly dependent upon the rainy season which causes the parched desert sands to become giddy with blooms and lush vegetation which spring up as if from nowhere and live a brief life which ends after they have reproduced. For much of the year, these ravenous insects would simply not have enough to eat in these sere and rocky deserts but the Locust Tree (Ceratoni Siliqua) prefers this kind of terrain and the flat leathery pods, surrounded by a spongy sweet pulp (carob) grow thickly upon its branches. Locally referred to as’ Saint John’s Bread’, the pods would have nourished John the Baptist and any locust that decided to try to brave the hostile conditions.

At the top of a winding and narrow lane, the strategic location of Little Cornard and its church is obvious, situated on the waning hills of the Chiltern ridge where the Suffolk lands rise up to meet the Essex border. The parish of Little Cornard was the first place in Suffolk to report the Black Death and lost 60 congregants with 21 families suffering the loss of every adult member. Other battles were fought and also brought death in their wake because here the Danes and the Saxons fought a savage and arduous conflict. None of these events feature on the All Saints kneeler which is instead emblazoned with – a peacock- that most un Suffolk and indeed, un-English bird. There is a Peacock Hall in the village though, an 18 timber-framed and plastered house with a keystone decorated with an angels head. According to archive material, the manor was held in 1333 by John Somersham who also held the Manor of Peacocks in Little Cornard and today, locals report peacocks do live in their vicinity as semi tame family pets.

The history of the bird in England is less clear although there is evidence that the Indian Peafowl was brought by Phoenician traders as gifts to the pharaohs of Egypt as long ago as 1000 B.C and probably brought here by the Romans. Their association with grand homes? Maybe because they were popular edible centrepieces at banquets or were an exotic ornate addition to the grounds, showing that their owners were worldy sophisticated people. The actual word ‘Peacock’ comes from the old Anglo Saxon (péa) to describe an overtly vain person, from the pre 7th Century word “peacocc” and Chaucer used the word to refer to an ostentatious person, calling him “proud a pekok” in Troilus and Criseyde.The word, as a personal name, was first recorded in the Domesday Book for the county of Essex in 1086.

Many of the kneelers use puns based on a parish name as in the wheelbarrow chosen by Barrow, the crow that represents Crowfield (although Crowfield is not named from the bird but from an Old English word croh meaning nook or corner) and Burgate’s gate. Modern parish life is celebrated too: Leavenheaths grazing cows juxtaposed with electricity pylons; Leistons nuclear power station (which has its own sci-fi kind of strange beauty in the sea mists that swirl in the early morning) and the modernised ‘House in the Clouds’ of Thorpeness. Suffolks watery locale and maritime heritage is beautifully represented from the crewelled Wolverston smugglers cat sitting in a cottage window, the tall mast of HMS Ganges chosen by Shotley parish and Dalham’s Golden Hind, captained by Sir Francis Drake. His agent went by the name of Martin Stuteville, came from the village and was also his sailing companion alongside familial owner of the local manor house. The village name, Dalham, springs from the Old English word for valley homestead.

For me, the stand out piece of Suffolk curiousness is the frog emblazoned kneeler that represents Frostenden; a village that the Danes referred to as ‘the valley of the frog’ (‘frosc’ = ‘frog’) and in possession of one of Suffolks 38 round tower churches -completely ancient in itself and one of the oldest of the old. A valley is indicated by names that contain the Old English ‘denu’- although do be sure to pronounce Frostenden without that ‘t’. Recorded in the Domesday Book as ‘Froxedena’ , the good book also stated that ocean going crafts moored here although all that remains now of its marine past is a ditch that is barely wide enough to house a family of frogs and many acres of farmland separate the village from the North Sea. Near to the old port area by a footpath running from Cove Bottom is a large earthen mound which locals say has yet to be excavated or even explained definitively. A report from the early 1900’s talks of a ‘naust’ – a Viking dry dock rarely seen outside of Denmark and, also scattered around and lying buried under great whippy stems of brambles and thickets of nettles, are what remains of the old quays. You’ll find other port-related working objects lie scattered about the place too if you really hunt about.