caldrail

Last night was a quiet evening. That's a refreshing change after the constant droning noises from my neighbours. A chance then to enjoy a good read, safe in the knowledge that nothing would disturb the atmosphere of peace and calm. The occaisional passing car made no difference, even the ones with stereos capable of setting off a major earthquake response. With the damp and uncertain weather outside, there wasn't much disturbance from pedestrians either. Previously I've mentioned the noisy carousing expected of an evening. Youths jostling for social status by chanting louder than anyone else, young girls totally in the grip of giggle fever, and thugs warning each other of dire consequences if the other paerty doesn't immediately indulge in sex and travel. Last night there was something difference. A pair of young women were walking down the street, presumably on their way to a night club, both singing together tunefully with a strong voices and vibrato. These ladies can actually sing! My immediate urge was to rush downstairs, run after them, and beg them to sing on my recordings. I suspect though they may not see it as a career opportunity. Photo's of the Week There's been a photo competition at the library. Not the usual sort, where you submit much loved creations and have your ego crushed by judges who prefer meaningless splashes of colour, but instead a collection of old photo's from Swindons past and the need to identify the event they depicted. I haven't seen these pictures before, but I recognised the tram crash of the 1900's (which took place just across the road from where the library is today), the old manor house at Lawns (now demolished), and the canal wharf at Milton Road (now demolished too). I have no idea what the others were about. Images of people from a past time, expressions and characters frozen in silver nitrate. They seem so ill at ease at having their photographs taken yet so willing to stand there until the flash went off. The photography may have been primitive and staid, but what a priceless recording of an instant so long ago.

Then there's no arguement, because we're not suggesting that's the case. What we're suggesting is the possibility of mercenaries retained either using 'Roman authority' in it's actual absence, or mercenaries pretending to have that authority for their own purposes.

Sometimes I wonder if falling over is a communicable disease. A former boss, DS, has long demonstrated a complete inability to stay on her feet, drunk or sobre. It seems I'm starting to show signs of the same affliction. My task for the day was simple. I have one of those desktop lamps that doesn't have a bulb to fit it. So I set off with the aim to find a suitable light bulb with which to illuminate the darkened recesses of my hovel. Unfortunately the lamp happens to be one of those old Woolworths types, and since the whole shopping chain went bust a while back, there aren't any bulbs to fit. After several attempts it was becoming obvious I was on a lost cause. Instead, I decided it was probably easier to find a shop that sold new desktop lamps. That wasn't so easy. One shop I found looked like the sort of domestic equipment store that might sell these items. It didn't. Then I found another that did, but they had sold the last one a few minutes earlier. Sorry. Oh good grief, how many ex-Woolworth shoppers are there? At the end of the street was a potential vendor. I'd never been in there before so with some resigned optimism I decided to give it one last try. As I entered I discovered the floor tiles were incompatible with worn trainers, dead leaves, and damp conditions. Without any warning, I came down quite heavily. It did hurt. With all the compensation culture that goes on I suppose I could have have made a big deal over it, but then, I'm really not that convincing as a victim of a serious accident. In any case I tend to grin and bear it. So I got up, breathed out, and noticed everyone looking at me. Show's over people, you can go about your business. Caldrail has left the building. Tall Ships and Oil To Fund Them Looking through those specialist magazines in the library I spotted one about steam engineering. It was pretty much what I expected, cute branch railways almost given over entirely to nature and picture postcard villages, though I study one article about a horse-driven tramway serving a quarry in days of yore. Quite interesting, and an eye-opener to the weight those horses had to haul up and down inclines. The real bonus though was an article about merchant ships carrying oil under sail. These were tall ships with rows of canvas and rigging sailing the waters around England in the 1900's that had been fitted out to carry oil instead of whatever cargoes they'd been built for. I'm not into ships at all, but the photographs showed some seriously elegant vessels, seven masted, modernesque hulls, sails full of wind as they ploughed through the waves. It's a lost world. Shortest Gig of the Week Morrisey had been due to play a gig in Swindon over the weekend, at the Oasis sports centre. Apparently he sang one song then was rushed to hospital. No really, it happened. And the great thing is, I don't have to draw any fatuous conclusions at all.

I don't have documentary evidence or information on that subject, therefore I speculated. Sorry if it's too obvious for you, but the whole point is to continue a discussion on the subject, not to have it thrown in the bin. I'm not your student. I'm on this site to discuss the subject with anyone who's interested - that's what a forum is for. But since speculation is defined as inadmissable, I'll have to resort to questions. So.... What exactly was Olaf doing in the haybarn the day before he dug the ditch?

Money. The German tribes wanted their slice of the action. There were tax initiatives in the late empire to encourage Germans to settle in Roman lands for the purposes of bringing them into the Roman fold and using them as reinforcements for their shrinking recruitment pool. There were also a number of tribes who weren't invited and saw the lands south of the river as wealthier than their own temperate rainforests and heathland. They were right. It was. Not just because of rural success, which was sometimes under strain due to military recruitment, but also because as the empire drew to a close there was a tendency for rural communities to opt out of governmental control, thus avoiding taxes and the draft.

I agree, an interesting speculation. My own feeling is that Hannibal didn't use any inspiration for the battle plan other than his own crafty imagination. Battle plans were decided before battle commenced in the ancient world, as it was difficult, if not impossible, to control an army effectively for people of the time. The Romans had for a long time treated maniples/cohorts as semi-independent units within the legion that relied on individual initiative of their commanders more often than not. I strongly suspect Hannibal knew that, and deliberately set his forces to disrupt the large unwieldy formation used to attack Carthage on the day by forcing troops on the periphery to turn and face the flanks. This then caused the flanks of the Roman formation to slow down and stop whilst the centre dragged inexorably on, thus enabling them to be bottled up so easily. Hannibal did, after all, have a knack for clever subterfuge in tactics. In strategy Hannibal scores far less, and there's already been debates on his failures on campaign.

English weather is incredible. It's launched more conversations than the activities of fecund neighbours, and that really is saying something. Right now I'm sat staring out the window as the weather drifts by. One moment it's a sky of blue, then clumps of white cloud, then great cloaks of dark sombre grey, and I can see rainfall over West Swindon, all with the sun shining from the other direction. You know, it's occured to me the great thrill about our weather is the gambling element. Will I get home okay, or will I get soaked, or will I get swept away by autumnal hurricanes? You just never know. On the other hand, looking at the blanket of cloud on the horizon, I think I do. The Pope Needs You! If you've been watching the news lately you'll probably know that the Roman Catholic church has offered to recruit disaffected Anglican priests and give them dispensation for their different practises. A part of me says this is hugely cynical and smacking of hypocrisy, given the track record of heresy trials in the past, but then again, the Catholic church is the result of political necessity rather than unified worship. So why then is the Pope recruitng new priests in England? Is he going to challenge Gordon Brown in the next election? Vote Pope. Taking Britain into the Next Life. Uh Oh... The sun ain't shinin' no more. Thats a substantial rainshower out the window. You know the sort? Misty grey from horizon to horizon? Policies of the Week All is revealed. Jack Straw and Tony Blair thought up a plan to let even more immigrants into the country to create multi cultural England and didn't tell anyone. As if England wasn't overpopulated already. Perhaps it might be worth suggesting that Tony Blair and his accomplices emmigrate from England to make room for these new settlers? Unfortunately, now I've said that, I sound like a member of Nick Griffins British National Party, the fun face of British extremism. Having wowwed the crowd at a recent television panel show and complained to the BBC for giving him public exposure and a chance to speak his mind, I too laughed in disbelief at the shallow excuses he made for his extremist views, and indeed, neo-nazi background. Tell yer what, Tone, I'll let you stay in England if you kick Griffin off his podium. How's that for a deal? I suspect though nothing will happen. Tony Blair is a recent recruit to Roman Catholicism and therefore now works for the Pope. Vote Labour. Save Your Souls. You'll have nothing else left. Right, now I've poured water on our current governments chances of obtaining my vote.... Yep, It's Raining... The window has a hosepipe trained on it. Just thought you'd like to know in case you were planning to settle in England anytime soon.

Scylla, seriously, I know you like having the last word but defining fiction for us was pointless, and yes, it does take us away from the Saxon Shore and the Adventures of Olaf. I especially love the bit where he tries to pay his tavern bill in sestercii. Classic stuff. Incidentially, for all Saxon Shore fans, it's worth pointing out that the forts were protecting strategic landing places and who knows?.... Warning: This is a speculation. Anyone suffering from speculative allergies should see their doctor before reading Whilst we obviously see the Saxon Shore in purely defensive military terms, isn't that a bit limiting?. You see, although these forts covered strategic landing points they couldn't offer continual protection along the coastline. Given the normal Roman policies for securing territory, I would have to speculate that like other forts these constructions were used as bases for patrols. On sea as well as land? Bear in mind that coastlines and estuaries change significantly over two thousand years. In other words, rather like the modern day, these were immigration patrols more often than military defenses. After all, why would the Romano-British administration want a load of Saxon hooligans setting up camp?

Some years a Cessna took off from Edinburgh. The pilot was giving his girlfriend a joyride in the local area. Unfortunately the pilot left his radio on 'transmit' which made it impossible for air traffic control to contact anyone on that frequency for more than an hour, during which personal conversations and long periods of intimate silence were heard. What astonishes me is not the application to join the Half-Mile-Club, but that he succeeded in intimate relations within the very cramped cockpit of a Cessna 150. The man is a sexual genius, albeit a little short of common sense and self restraint. He landed at Edinburgh without incident to discover that everyone on that radio frequency had overheard his club application. Are such incidents common? Well, I do happen to know about an incident in America when the pilot of a twin engined aeroplane left it on autopilot and took his girl into the passenger cabin for... Well use your imagination. Didn't your parents tell you about the birds and the bees? In this case, the cockpit door swung shut as the plane flew through turbulent air and because of safety restrictions the pair couldn't access the controls. They had to take the door off its hinges with a nailfile, long after the aeroplane had passed its intended destination and almost out of fuel. Now it seems an airliner overshot its destination by 150 miles in America just recently. Neither air traffic control nor other aircraft in the vicinity could raise any response from the crew, and eventually a stewardess managed to get a reaction and all ended happliy ever after, apart from the enquiry currently taking place. The crew claim they were in a heated discussion and didn't notice they had overshot their landing path. That's some discussion guys. The authorities are a little more suspicious and believe the crew were asleep at the controls. What? All three of them? Given the track record for pilots behaviour in these circumstances, one can't help wondering if there wasn't some Three-In-A-Cockpit orgy going on. Have You Seen Our Dog? Yesterday I took advantage of a lull in the rainy weather and headed for the hills with a backpack. The mud was heavy going and I have to confess, I did stop at a country pub for a pint. Not illegal of course, but I imagimne there are plenty of people who want unemployed people to stop enjoyinmg themselves and darn well get a job. I am trying, but let's face it, after so many rejection letters wouldn't you resort to drink? On the way home through Coate Water, or perhaps more accurately around Coate Water, I could hear the desperate calls of a dog owner. The gentleman was understandably concerned at the disappearance of his best friend. I hope he recovers the dog safe and well, because other than reporting its location there wasn't a lot I could have done. Later I trudged across the grassy hillside of Lawns, in Old Town, a park that was once a the grounds of a manor house. An old woman asked me if I owned a lercher, one of those shag pile greyhound types that are commonly associated with gypsies. One of these days I really am going to have to improve my image. I told I didn't, and she explained that a lercher was wandering around by itself. She's clearly a kindly woman concerned with the welfare of stray dogs, but I can't really see what I stood to gain from running after a very swift dog with heavy pack on my pack. Lerchers are hunting dogs by instinct. I seriously don't think it's going to share a rabbit with me.

Amazing as it may seem, scientific research is not just gratuitous speculation or wild fantasy; there is something more, that can in fact be explained even by wikipedia... In any case, there's nothing wrong in writing fiction, as long as it is not sold as History. Fiction? Fiction is storytelling for the purposes of entertainment. As far as I'm aware, speculation is a different process, although some do pass it off as fact. Fact: The Romans withdrew their legions in 409 Speculation: Soldiers left pots of gold behind them, an established practice over the ages. Fiction: Olaf The Saxon Ditch Digger got very wealthy. I do know why you have such an apparent distaste for speculation, but I'm afraid to inform you that whilst this site aims to achieve a high standard of history it also remains a place for discussing Roman history, and naturally speculation will provide intriguing and entertaining topics. The discourse of these topics will also generate answers that rely on fact, either to prove or disprove the point. After all, isn't the entire point of a Roman forum a place to debate issues? If it becomes merely a question and answer session, what a dull site this would become. Nonetheless, speculation does sometimes give rise to possibilities that hadn't been considered before. If this proves to consistent with the available evidence and provides a clearer reason for decisions and events made in the past, I'm all in favour of it. It has, in this case, advanced the study of history by improving understanding of what occured. What could I learn from simply accepting the text of classical sources and nothing more? Nothing new, and in limiting the study of history to accepted and established dogma, it would be impossible to learn something from any individual that I couldn't learn from another. I already know the legions withdrew from Britain in 409. I would like to know whether they left any pots of gold behind (which I mean in an abstract, general sense), and perhaps tonight before I switch the lamp off and retire for the evening, I'll sit with a mug of cocoa and chuckle at the adventures of Olaf the Ditch Digger as he rights wrongs and gets the girl in the final chapter. Personally, I don't see the problem.

It was just another day in rain soaked Swindon. A lorry rumbled past, bouncing on the road surface with loud rattles, spraying water on the faceless citizens scurrying from place to place. This is one tough town, where only the driest survive. Who knows? Maybe some mysterious dame will walk through my door and complicate my life. It was not to be. An impersonal text message arrived on my phone. SBD will collect your faulty laptop today between 07:00 and 20:00. Oh? I wasn't informed about this. And whilst we're on the subject, I have a faulty PC, not a laptop. Who on earth is SBD anyway? My first thought was that the vendor who sold me that somewhat dodgy computer in the first place was up to something. I phoned for consumer advice, which wasn't entirely helpful on this occaision, then proceeded to track down the guilty party. Phoning the vendor produced a lot of passing the parcel and audible shrugs. Great. The message didn't originate from them and now they think I'm slightly insane. That'll help my case. However, one voice in the background suggested SBD was a courier. Aha! A lead. The phone book didn't help me at all. There was no phone number for SBD at all and phoning Telephone Enquiry numbers these days requires a second mortgage. Is this an official collection by Trading Standards for a safety inspection? No, it wasn't. Could this be some sort of clever scam to knick a computer? Dunno. Was it the company dealing with my data recovery? "Yes, SBD work for us." The woman on the other end of the phone answered with a jovial giggle. "The disks are being sent to a laboratory. We've been having problems with their automated booking service. You shouldn't have received that text message at all. I am sorry." Oh that's all right. I've just spent a few quid chasing this up. Next time I'll just wait for some indifferent van driver to turn up and send him on his way frustrated. Well, since I've still got a few quid left, I'll pop down to the shops and buy a cider bottle. Pictures At An Exhibition The problem with our visually entertained world is that people generally prefer something visual with their information. Photos and diagrams have become essential in publishing these days. That's even more true of the internet. Now that I've been writing web pages on one subject or another, it's time to consider an illustration. I've discovered a heritage site that has collections of images connected with Roman history available for download. That's cool, let's check it out. The images were indeed excellent. Photographs of modern re-enactors, archaeological sites, and some stunning artists impressions of Roman life in Britain. Naturally I checked out the license conditions. Copyright can be a thorny issue and I've no intention of treading on someones toes. So there's personal use, editorial use, and creative use. Let's see.... Web pages... Yes, I need a license for editorial use. The average cost is

At the risk of overstating the obvious, I'm sure anyone can understand that presenting the accumulated insight of pure speculation as established facts is too unrestrictive and misleading, to say the least; after all, potentially any ignorant guy can do that. Then again, anyone might also understand that if you don't investigate possibilities, you learn nothing new. For instance, I might say that it's possible the Romans built a settlement by that tree over there. Gut feeling. Your response might then be not possible, because there's no evidence or literary basis for a settlement to exist there. You might be right. The settlement might not be there at all and I've wasted my time. On the other hand, I make a new discovery, get my face on television for five minutes, and become unbearably smug. Under no circumstance whatsoever would I ever deny the possibility of things, even though on occaision commonsense tells us the possibility is remote. Otherwise, history is a stale subject akin to memorising a dictionary. You can't make discoveries unless you speculate on possibility. Incidentially, the Notitia Dignitatum might well be a list of dignitaries, but the list includes military commanders, their units, and their stations. That comes under the heading of assets as far as I'm concerned, and indeed, the entire list of dignitaries could be viewed in the same manner.

The Notitia Dignitatum was a list of assets. It covered a whole range of stuff. Also, due apologies, it seems I was incorrect about Aella. He did land in Britain in 477 but his attack on Pevensey was 492 as Scylla stated. Thanks to the Anglo-Saxon Chronicler for sorting out that little error. Sorry to hear about the monastery. Hope the insurance covers it.

My first clue to the importance of the day was spotting the library security guard. He's a portly chap, walking with a pronounced sway, sort of like an oversized chimp. He was carrying a bunch of flowers. Never in my life have I seen him look so incongruous. I couldn't help asking him if this was part of his usual duties. He chuckled, but I think what he really wanted to do was punch my lights out. Later I went to the library for my daily dose of internet goodness. What is going on? The interior of the building was festooned with white balloons. Library staff in gothic and dickensian dress. Pretty normal day then? I asked one librarian, a woman whose normal seriousness was replaced by a bizzare black and white wig, what was going on? She smiled. Ye gods, she is a human being after all! It seems the Library is a year old. I heard the Mayor of Swindon and his retinue making a speech downstairs followed by polite applause. Everyone else sat slack jawed as they played card games on their computer screens. How time flies when you're having fun. Baby Fair Walking through town yesterday afternoon I was noticed by a pair of young mothers and their ubiquitous baby buggies. One turned to the other and made a scornful comment amount my credibility as a sharp dressed man. Well, at least she was discrete about it, and in all honesty, I wasn't overly bothered. I've heard worse. Mind you, her bog standard unmarried-mother-of-one uniform could do with a makeover. So could her ridiculously crinkled offspring. Then again, the child was behaving itself. A little further on a young girl, maybe five or six years old, lay on the pavement screaming purple-faced at her mother to pick her up, as her parent shook her head in amused non-compliance at her childs very explicit command. The little girl kept on screaming. I hope those tantrums get sorted because otherwise she is going to grow up an unbearably spoilt bossyboots. Like she is now, but driving a BMW to the schedule on her laptop. It so happened I spotted an advert pasted on the plywood protection on abandoned shops. Baby Fair. This Friday. What on earth is that all about? Buggy races? Sponsored potty training? Screaming contests? Not that I'm worried. I won't be allowed entry on account of being more than two feet tall. Or is this fair something more commercial? I can imagine a dampened street, wooden racks with canvas shelters overhead, and lines of bemused infants making random limb movements. A grizzled old babymonger shouting his sales pitch to the passing throngs. "Babies for sale! Get-cha babies here! Two and six a dozen! 'Owbout you Sir? Present for the missus. She'll love this bundle of fun. Quality babies... You can't get these at Harrads... Prices so low I'm almost givin' 'em away. And you madam? Come on, don't be shy..." Cloudscape of the Week From the second floor lounge of the library I get a good view over Regents Circus, a connecting road in central Swindon. Better still, there's little to impede the view of the sky. Today is another grey and indifferent vista of mediocre clouds hiding the sun, with the sky turned white by icy layers high above. Yesterday was completely different, one of those uncertain days of sunshine and showers. The sky was blue with a faded pastel grey layer, and tall bulges of cumulus lit in deep contrast by the late afternoon sun, and together with their dark ragged satellites drifted menacingly by. A bright rainbow arched across in front of the scene. It was genuinely beautiful to see.

I blame the Moon. That lump of grey cheese hanging over our heads does all sorts of crazy things to human beings. Now it seems the guys at NASA have decided to plan ahead for more manned missions there. That new Aries 1X probe isn't going to be cheap. It's a lot of cash to spend to find a little buried ice on a rock two hundred and fifty thousand miles away. Is this a good thing? On the one hand, I'm thrilled to bits that NASA haven't given up space exploration, despite the obvious danger and potential failures they might encounter. For a human being to send himself into a dark enviroment he couldn't possibly survive in at such distances, with so little chance of rescue if things go wrong, is inspiring. It really is. The spirit that made sailors cross seemingly endless oceans, risking falling off the edge of the world (or more usually, crew mutinies), has always been the stuff of legend. Take those hardy Vikings. They sailed out to Iceland, Greenland, even as far as Newfoundland if current thinking is correct. There are some people who believe some Vikings migrated as far as South America. They did this in open row boats. A modern reconstruction was sailed from Norway to Ireland as part of a celebration a few years ago and the crew suffered horribly even in relatively calm seas. Those dark age adventurers were made of stern stuff. The problem of course is that other side of human endeavour that remains somewhat more selfish. Conquest and wealth will be part of the human pysche for as long as we exist on this earth, because it's an extension of our natural instincts and a major reason for our success as a species. NASA are hoping to reach Mars, setting foot there fior the first time. That would be a stunning achievement. Nonetheless, when it all becomes a mundane part of our lives as space explorers, writers, and dreamers often so wish, we will eventually bring with all the human foibles we despair of at home. Most of us are familiar with Star Trek and its successors. There's a wonderful underlying optimism to these theatrical tales of science fiction. So much so that the concepts are almost imbedded in our culture. Could we really build a benign and unselfish federation of worlds? We're lucky. The chemicals that combined to make life on Earth are everywhere in the universe, but the conditions in which it could start and thrive are extremely rare. Our planet is one in countless others that couldn't possibly support life. I wonder how many of us are thinking "Ahh, but that's life as we know it..." Good luck to NASA and the astronauts who will sit on top of a metal cylinder filled with explosive substances that will hurl them hundreds of thousands of miles across empty space. Who knows? Maybe they'll find water after all. Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch Last night was dragging a little. I'd played the guitar, fumbled the keyboards, listened to the radio... No. I've had enough. I just needed to step outside and get some fresh air, and my excuse was to pop down the road for a burger. You can still get those at a relatively cheap price these days. As I approached the fast food outlet I noticed customers waiting in the premises. Four men, shaven heads, lounging around with the calm confidence of people who order nails on the side with their takeaways. They gave me an appraising glance as I came in. You have to expect that with people used to violence. They automatically size up the opposition by habit. The problem is that I don't belong to their tribe. My clothes and appearance don't match their visual recognition signals of dangerous manhood. To me that means little. Human beings are tribal creatures and we adopt rules for measuring ourselves against others as a matter of course. If they're comfortable with themselves and mind their own business, why would that concern me? The problem of course is that we sometimes do jostle for social dominance. Our outward displays of fashion and gesture usually suffice. Sometimes one party feels the need to push further, to be aggressive, to force a retreat of their rivals or maybe even worse. I must be honest, whilst I wasn't intimidated as such, there was a prickly atmosphere in that takeaway last night. The vendor cooked my burger very quickly and handed it to me without the usual chat. I took the hint.

Yes. Correct. It is speculative. So what? Northern Neil informed me of a possible saxon contingent I wasn't aware of, so I extrapolated for the purposes of speculation. Think about it Scylla. If you run a local community on a coastline at risk of raids or piracy, and the only real protection are foreign mercenaries, how do you get them to act in your name? There are only three ways. You pay them off handsomely, you could attempt to force them to do so, or you provide motivation and a cause to fight for. This is nothing new. The world is full of people fighting on foreign soil for what they believe in or to fatten their wallet. If you doubt the power of symbolism in inspiring men to act, then the current news concerning the furore over the British National Party's use of world war two icons might illustrate the point. Further, the dark ages are not black. Certainly there's doubts over this or that, a few things we don't know, but by and large the dark ages in Britain are far better documented than pre-roman times. There's quite a list of annals and chronicles for instance. Local folklore. Or maybe... how about a browse of wikipedia? http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dark_ages http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saxons http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Angles http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jutes http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Danes_(Germanic_tribe) http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vikings http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/English_people http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Britons_(historical) http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gildas http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nennius http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anglo-saxon_chronicle http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wessex http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mercia http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Northumbria http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bernicia http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Deira That's just a selection from an online dictionary. I imagine a learned historian would know more. I certainly enjoy reading the detailed books on the period available to me in my local reference library, which does not specialise in history studies. History isn't always so cut and dried. Facts are important. But, as they say in financial circles, you must speculate to accumulate. Without speculation, there is no insight, because you're not thinking about it. Learning by rote has its advantages but you'll only learn what someone told you. I find that a very restrictive and potentially ignorant viewpoint.

Strictly speaking that's correct (although Aella landed twenty years earlier). However, there are indications that the Britons were none too happy about the changes in regime. The withdrawal of Roman troops and the collapse of local government might have made for a brief period of prosperity due to unpaid taxes, but the stronger members of society would have responded by attempting to attract power, and indeed, Gildas writes about such changes, labelling local warlords as 'tyrants' (of which the legendary Arthur is mentioned as one - not quite the chivalrous king of medieval fiction - and Gildas seems to have some grudge against his memory. The point though is that the Roman element of British society hadn't died in their memories. The reason that the majority of early dark age romano-britons seem so un-roman is that they always had been, living alongside the Roman administration and obeying it's laws, but retaining a certain 'celtic-ness' all the same. A long term successful administration under which people generally prospered was bound to leave an impression. There's a strange duality in Britain in that period amongst the natives. On the one hand, there's a flowering of celtic culture which has left engraved stones in passing, plus the lingering retention of Roman ideals, and at least one northern tribe maintained latin titles throughout the dark ages. Both however were largely swept aside by the germanic settlers, who dominated the locals with their own beliefs and structures, complicated by the emergence of two forms of christianity, one Irish, one Roman, that contended for precedence in those times. Rome was therefore not entirely dead in peoples minds in the Dark Ages, whatever the actual political reality was. As to whether the foederatii still manned the battlements bearing Roman symbols is impossible for me to say. It isn't entirely implausible, though if existent I would suggest that the powerful image of Rome was something iconic and a rallying call rather than a direct command structure. A modern equivalent might be Middle England. Something we know has actually gone (if it ever really existed) but nonetheless a mindset, a concept, that persists despite changes in fashion and one that still motivates individuals toward certain actions.

As I've mentioned before, an extended spell of unemployment changes your perception of time. Life is at a slow pace, nothing hurried, and all those little things you used to cram into every spare five minutes now assume the status of your entire days activity. However, the recent near-fatal experience with my computer has changed all that. Suddenly I'm pitched into a battle of wills with the company that made the wretched thing. The law says I'm entitled to a repair, replacement, or refund. The company says that they aren't doing anything unless I pay for it. This is gambling at it's worst. They know I'm unemployed and can't afford solicitors fees. As it happens, so do I. Having sought legal advice from one of that elite crowd, she asked me if being unemployed was going to cause any difficulty in paying bills. Well... Ahem... I am going to struggle a little there.... She leaned forward and with her very best air of legal dominance, stared me in the face and warned me that her services don't come for free, with which she got up to leave. I have heard stories about that, I responded with a certain cheekiness. I swear she restrained a guffaw. Nonetheless, the battle for justice continues. Rain Rain Go Away... Forecaster love bad weather. They really do. Any possibility of horrendous conditions and they bring out the warning signs, describing the likeliehood of death by drizzle in such enthusiastic tones. Last night they warned of a cyclone crossing the country, bringing with wet and windy weather. I have to say I'm a little disappointed. Here in Swindon it has been somewhat damp but as yet, no terrific downpours. Hardly a breath of wind either. In fact, as I glance out the library window, I can see... Ahhh.... yes... Well that's okay, I have my waterproofs with me. Visit of the Week Earlier today I visited the National Monument Record. It's a large library of documents and so forth based in a former office of the Great Western Works. The lady on the security desk told me to observe the restrictions on items brought inside. They do provide lockers so I went through the list to see what needed to be stowed away before I entered. Almost everything. Oh well. I must say, the staff are very cheery, very helpful, and pointed me in the direction of the information I was after. Thing is though, there's also a kind of spooky atmosphere in there. I can't really imagine any headless draughtsmen wandering around the aisles. Given this was a drawing office in times gone by, I suspect the only deaths were down to boredom. The reason for my unease was that everyone seems to look at you in a certain disapproving judgemental manner. You can't help feeling that you're intruding upon an inner sanctum, in a place of reverence fit only for the pure of academic image. I wonder if I could get away with making a sudden loud noise? I used to get paid for doing that. Maybe not, eh? Come on Caldrail, grow up. Anyway I still have another six thousand photographs of muddy ditches to trawl through. Wow. What an exciting life I lead. I can feel myself turning into a ghost already....

Entertainment is becoming harder to achieve without my trusty computer. Certainly I'm going to be a better guitar player from this interlude of electronic fulfillment (my neighbours might disagree) and I'll have time to get to grips with keyboards again. It also means that the desire for news has led me to start listening to the radio, which I usually ignore for more visual information. Last night it so happened that Ricky Gervais was being interviewed. He's released a film called The Invention of Lying which I admit, I haven't seen. I'm not really a fan of Ricky Gervais (Sorry, Rick, but you wouldn't want me to lie, would you?) but he really is an engaging conversationalist. It turns out he too has a mother who wanted him to be christian. In his case however, the matter has been settled. He did make an interesting observation about fame. He stated that becoming a celebrity is worthless unless you've actually done something. Thanks, Rick, I can now continue as a minor Rock God safe and secure in the knowledge I fell flat on my face. All my own work, too. The way things are going I might well try falling over again. Hey, Norman Wisdom made a career of it. Cure By Fire The US Army has acted on the issue of servicemen returning from active duty in Iraq suffering from Post Traumatic Syndrome. In Britain this was once known as 'Shell Shock', very mmuch an issue with men in the trenches of World War One exposed to continual bombardment. I remember the sorry tale of one artilleryman who simply got up and walked into No-Mans Land purely to have his suffering end. The British have traditionally taken a 'stiff upper lip' attitude toward this. Stop snivelling man, and pull yourself together. Perhaps we've become more enlightened. Modern training methods are much more focused than they were in the heady days of the war to end all wars, so perhaps it's right that care is taken to rehabilitate those who have risked their lives in the service of their country. What I found extraordinary though is the latest technique from America. They simulate the battlefield with sights, sounds, and smells common to a war zone. How ironic that to ease the suffering of former soldiers, they're put back in a simulated enviroment that causes them grief. Job Opportunity of the Week Royal Mail are going to hire on 30,000 temps this winter - twice the usual number - in order to compensate for the expected industrial dispute that is looming in the busiest postal season of all. That's great. There's a depot in my area. So now I can apply to work there if I manage to get through the picket lines. Nothing like a challenge, eh?

The question then would revolve around whether the foederatii were loyal to Rome or their pay packet. If the latter, then they either let Aella in or made only a cursory defence. If the former, it would require an attack, which Aella's saxons were ill-prepared for despite arriving in strength, which leaves open a possibility of pretty much the same behaviour from the defenders.

The lesson of todays sermon is never to to take anything for granted. My worry is that this will sound more like an exercise in paranoia. Nonetheless, the events have occured, and behind it all lurks a reason. Let me explain. I make no secret of my predeliction for using computers. They're versatile tools and sources of entertainment. But as with all complex machines, sometimes they go wrong. The ebb and flow of my computers reliability has inspired various posts on this blog already. At least once I thought my personal files were gone for good. Certainly you should make regular backups and so forth, but the reality is that the sheer volume of data on modern hard disks is all but impossible to safeguard entirely. Last night I finished reading and decided to fire up the PC and carry on producing some artwork for a flight simulator I was busy with. On the other hand, let's catch up with the news.... Click on TV.... Ahhh, here we go, the familiar scrolling messages telling me about whichever disaster has occured somewhere in the world, and a guy behind a desk shuffling papers and telling us their weatherman has interesting news.... POP! (Fade to black) Huh? Oh no, not again! The screen went dead, the hard disk gently coming to a stop with a declining whir. Oh billiant, the fuse has gone. Well, now that I'm electrically aware, courtesy of Swindon College (though they still haven't sent me the certificate), I checked the circuit breakers downstairs. Everything okay there. So I dug out a spare fuse, fitted it to the plug, and replaced the power lead into the back of my PC.... BANG! The fireworks were impressive. Instantly the cable came close to the metal prongs at the back of my PC, it arced spectacularly. The whole ring main went dead, kitchen and all. The unpleasant smell of burning became apparent. That was close. Another inch, literally that close, and I would have suffered burns or a significant and potentially lethal electric shock. Later that evening I persuaded the letting agent to send an electrician to check out the mains supply at my home. He quickly asserted the supply was fine. He merely shrugged at my insistence of safety. Clearly a man who laughs at danger, I ventured. "Occupational hazard." He replied. I'm starting to think I really don't want to be an electrician. But that all very well. I now have a truly dead computer again, this time electrically suspect and dangerous. I hold out hope that the hard drive has survived the trauma. After all, the thought of losing all my project files and eight years of work is a lot to cope with. I must now deal with the reasons why that PC failed in that manner. The first possibility, and probably the more likely, is that it was a shoddy build in the first place. For that I can only blame the PC repair shop. The second, and more alarming possibility, is that the equipment was sabotaged deliberately. I told you this was going to sound paranoid. Prophecy of the Week Six years ago, more or less, a man in the street yelled "Your love of the machine has to end." We do get the occaisional wierdo in Britain. Then again, is the love of machinery so bad? Technology and egineering are part of modern life and essential for our success and well-being. In the last five years, two cars belonging to me have been completely ruined by persons unknown. Now two computers have been effectively ruined. If all this was part of some plot to recreate my character, all I can say is that ending a love affair with spite or greed is not a better choice.

After the dreary damp weather of the last few days the sunsine is back. That about sums up the last twenty four hours for me. Nothing much happened.... Oh yes. My downstairs neighbour left the hallway light on all nght. More news when I get it Postal Woes Royal Mail is threatening strikes shortly and so disruptions to services are expected. Will I notice? Just lately the post to my address contains all the neighbours letters too, and I suspect they're getting some of mine. Come on guys, sort it out.... Compare that to Amazon.com. Delivery to the door before the expected date at low low prices. The Government want to privatise the mail services and I can see why. The only problem there of course is that sincve my claims advisor is very keen to make me a postman, I'll end working for peanuts as commercial pressure drives down wages. Never mind. It's that time of year and perhaps I'll send an application letter for seasonal work. Without a bit of luck it'll actually get there before Christmas.

I've written in the past of my doubts concerning astrology. Sure, there is something comforting about these hints of the fate awaiting us around the corner, it's just that those people writing the hints are peddling security blankets. Funny thing is though, and most likely by sheer coincidence, there are times when a commercial prediction comes spookily close to events in your life. Take yesterdays local newspaper for instance. Apparently the planet Venus is returning to my star sign about now and bringing with it the chance of romantic interest (Sounds familiar... Where have I heard that before?). Of course I chuckled when I read it as I usually do. I was pleased the prediction also mentioned that I should beware the forthcoming interest may prove to be a little more temporary than I would like. Having perused the job vacancies and advertisements, I promptly threw the paper to one side and forgot the whole thing. Walking through town on what was a dreary drizzly day in rainy old Swindon, the throngs of people in the street thinned out and there ahead of me was an attractive leggy blonde standing under an umbrella with a whole pile of pamphlets in her hand. There's no fool like an old fool. Always tempted by a pretty smile, I allowed myself to be sucked into her sales pitch for the snack bar across the street. One of those great things about meeting people is that sometimes you connect with them. It's an odd feeling. A complete stranger, yet you feel at ease and comfortable in their presence. Then you realise there's what seems to be a genuine warmth to this communication beyond the desire to profit from baguettes. We chatted for a short while. She was pleasurable company, and actually quite pretty. All the while she carried on passing pamphlets to passers-by. I wasn't irritated by that - she was being paid to sell - yet a part of me realised that however well we got along, her eyes would ultimately look elsewhere. It seems my temporary affair had run it's course. If Venus wants to ensare me in the throes of passion and emotional fulfillment, she'll have to do better than that. It seems for once the astrologer was right. How about that? Excuses of the Week Perhaps it was just as well she didn't see this morning. There's a side street that has a sharp left hand turn downhill, and right where the pavement follows the slope I slipped. Woah!... Balance... Nope. Over I went. On the plus side, I have excuses.... 1 - I wasn't looking where I was going. 2 - My trainers are worn and now have smooth undersides. 3 - The pavement was wet and greasy 4 - I was just practising to be an idiot.

Everyones worrying about money at the moment. I can't say I've any sympathy for those ministers of Parliament required to pay back allowance claims considered dubious - they've been on a gravy train for decades. It so happens the cash shortage might well impact on me. Not because my benefits are under threat, but because job opportunities aren't going to be so readily available in the future. Typical of this situation is the farce over a few stones. Years ago there was a church just across the square from where the library stands today. It was an unloved stone building with a greek portico and pillars. Although it was once a listed building, and thus protected, the church authorities eventually decided that it didn't look right in the modernesque redveloped town centre and had it removed from the list, and it was duly demolished afterward. Jesus, it seems, doesn't have bottomless pockets for the upkeep of old buildings either. Anyhow, the stones were bought and taken to site in Wales for a construction project that fell through. With some optimism, Swindon Council recently bought the idle stones back for a modest

The Saxons were not known for ability in siege warfare. Their advance from the south coast in the 5th/6th century was impeded not only by stiff resistance from the Romano-British, but also their earthwork defences. As for the Roman forts, the only Saxon to get inside one (as I understand it at present) was Aella, who landed at Pevensey in 477. The fort at the time may not have been entirely in the best repair since with the withdrawal of Roman legions, their civil engineering expertise more or less left with them.