As a person with a degree in Archaeology, I obviously have a bit of a soft spot for old stuff. The fact I chose not to squander my time digging, sifting through bags of mud, counting the amount of different shell types from shell middens and touching myself during repeats of time team was something I realized after my first year of the course. Why didn’t I change courses? Because I had a real fascination in the subject and I suppose I felt it would make me a more knowledgeable fellow, certainly I found whenever I had banter with the generation above they would always show interest, often ending with “Gosh, that takes seven years to qualify doesn’t it?” Err no that’s Architecture…another drink sir?
1760: Old. George III hits the throne / Photo by Nick Weston
I suppose I was just interested in the finds: the Indiana Jones school of archaeology. Now that is a course they should run up at the University of Newcastle Upon Tyne…the “Wham, Bam, thank you Mam” archaeological approach was certainly for me, I didn’t want to mince about, I wanted to discover things and have the experience of taking something out of the ground that hadn’t been touched by human hands for thousands of years. Problem was that rarely happened and if it did, it involved digging first…you do the mathematics.
1839: Quite old. The year Cezanne was born and Darwin married his cousin / Photo by Nick Weston
So what is this post about? Last week, whilst on a local jaunt to find another weird place to sleep (see pill boxing), I had heard rumors in the local pub, that infinite source of local wisdom, of caves nearby and one of the largest outcrops of sandstone in the country…on my doorstep? Really? So I had to check it out to see if the country pub banter was truth or, as with most rustic drinking holes, exaggerated myth.
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