Cerne Abbas: Parody or symbol of Saxon paganism?

 

Photo credit: Ben Birchall/PA

I had the rare opportunity to visit the famous Giant of Cerne Abbas, Dorset earlier this week, it was a little smaller than I'd hoped but it got myself thinking about what exactly the Giant is supposed to represent. You can only really see it properly from the opposite hill or by helicopter, and to the passing walker it's nothing more than a series of lines etched into the soil. Personally, I find it hard to believe that it was intended to terrify or drive the fear of god(s) into local villagers, and the fact that Cerne Abbas is far away from any past political boundary, save perhaps the Iron Age boundary between core Durotrigan territory and looser Dobunnic/Atrebatic territory.

So what, then, was the Giant for? Recent archaeological analysis by Mike Papworth and Mike Allan, on behalf of the National Trust, has challenged the old assumptions about the Giant. It was thought that it was either a relic of the Bronze or Iron ages, emblazoning the local war-deity or warrior chieftain onto the landscape, or a caricature of Oliver Cromwell, who had sought to wrestle supreme political power away from its religious connotations - if the lord protector did not need a divine right to rule, perhaps his sovereignty rested on the blessings of giants and fairies instead. However, using samples taken from successive layers of chalk, the two archaeologists arrived at a date of between 700 and 1000 C.E. during the late Anglo-Saxon period. This was confirmed by the presence of two snail species known to have migrated to the U.K. around this time, in the earliest chalk layer.

If neither Celtic symbol nor royalist caricature, the reason for the Giant's etching is hard to determine. The Cerne Abbey was founded in 987 C.E., in dedication to the 9th-century Hermit Eadwold, who was apparently the long-lost brother of King Edmund of East Anglia, killed by the Great Viking Army. Those building the abbey would certainly have been aware of the Giant in their day-to-day lives, as it is clearly visible from the site; there is no evidence that it was destroyed or purposely meddled with at any point, so there must not have been a great objection to it..

One possible explanation is that the Giant represents a late flourishing of Anglo-Saxon paganism, borne out of necessity; as Viking armies and Mercian kings marched across the region, the local folk, dimly remembering the nature of the old gods and their power in battle, drew the Giant to ward off those who sought to rape and pillage. The names Grim's Dyke, Woden's Burh and the Wansdyke, all in the south-west, might have arisen out of similar desires; preserving the memory of the pre-Christian religion to erect spiritual barriers between one region and another.

It might have indeed been a caricature, but not of Cromwell, but of the Viking warlords, reducing their aura of terror and invincibility to a crude impression on the hillside. The monks of the abbey may have had a hand in its creation, mocking the Scandinavian warrior gods as blundering giants, ignorant of the universal power of the Lord. Alternatively, given the phallus that has given the giant fame was in all probably a much later addition, as late as the Victorian period, and that the trace of a lion's pelt or loincloth was once held by the Giant's right hand, it may have been a Christian symbol, referring to one of the apostles, the story of David and Goliath, or the story of Daniel in the lion's den.

Mike Papworth, who excavated at the site and has written in detail about the archaeology of Dorset, such as in his 2009 publication The Search for the Durotriges, has suggested that soon after its first creation, it was neglected for several centuries, before being rediscovered and rechalked, perhaps during the Norman period or later. This would explain why the records of Cerne Abbey, or the writings of visiting ecclesiasts such as Aelfric of Eynsham, do not mention the giant, with it being grown over with grass. While this might rule out a direct association with the abbey, it does not rule out the giant being evidence for a localised syncretism, borne out of necessity or otherwise; the flickering memory of the beliefs, that were once taken for granted, given new life as a means of protection. God may have been the heart and soul of the Anglo-Saxons, but the old gods and the old symbols were still there, just in case they were needed.

Vikings on the Isle of Portland

© 2009 G.L.Wilson at sitesandstones.blogspot.com

The first raid of Norse seafarers is commonly remembered as the attack on the monastery of Lindisfarne, the windswept religious capital of the Kingdom of Northumbria, in 793 C.E. However, Dorset can claim the dubious honour of the first 'viking' raid, as according to most manuscripts of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, in 787 C.E., 3 ships from Hordaland, referring to the petty kingdom which comprises the area of modern-day Hordaland and the city of Bergen, arrived on the coast. They were met by the local reeve, who asked them to take their grievances to the king's town (i.e. Winchester), but the Norsemen killed him on the spot. The Chronicle makes clear that this was the first Norse foray onto Anglo-Saxon territory.

Another source, the Chronicon Aethelweardi, a variant manuscript of the ASC, comes from the late 10th century but adds a few important details. The reeve was apparently called Beaduheard, and the fatal clash was in fact on the Isle of Portland, then home to a Saxon church, probably dedicated to St. Andrew as the later Norman church is (see above picture). Portland was also a defensive strongpoint, not only due to its topography but the fact that an an old Iron Age hillfort lay on Werne Hill, from which all naval activity could be monitored and prepared for. While the Chronicon Aethelweardi is somewhat unreliable, it challenges the idea that the Saxons were, until Alfred the Great, helpless towards the northern threat. For instance, it claims that Beaduheard, as soon as he saw the incoming fleet, rushed to the harbour's defence with a retinue of warriors, contradicting the claim made by most versions of the ASC that the reeve 'knew not what they were', and was killed as a result. 

The Chronicon's reason for Beaduheard's death is not that he was struck down by surprise, but that he spoke to them 'in an authoritative tone.' One interpretation of this is that, having heard accounts of other raiding parties and knowing of their pagan beliefs, commanded them to abandon their weapons and seek a summons with the king, which they naturally refused. More likely, though, is that Beaduheard simply caught word of the raiding fleets from the reports of terrified families and the local clergymen, and decided to send a small retinue to investigate, cautious but not entirely certain whether to trust those reports.

Still, both the ASC and Chronicon account broaden the extent of Viking voyages in their earliest period. Norsemen had already begun raiding along the Frisian coast, and had assisted their old Saxon co-religionists against Charlemagne in the early 780s, but if the ASC is correct then their ships may have sailed along the English coastline before this. Their landing on Portland might have been an attempt to find richer sites; perhaps stories of Exeter's wealth or the prosperity of Southampton brought them there. The mention of the raid being the first Danish attack, despite the fleet hailing from Hordaland, then a Norwegian kingdom, could suggest that the fleet's crew consisted of adventurers from across the Norse world, a coordinated expedition planned long in advance. Taken literally, the ASC account also implies that the earliest Norse raid was not just about fortune, they 'sought out the land of the English race', for their families or their kinsmen to seek new lands, not just to plunder but to farm, build and trade goods. 

To summarise, from the written evidence alone it is clear that the traditional picture of the horizons of Anglo-Saxon England at the start of the 'viking period', dominated by monks confined to barren cells and peasants fearing God's wrath with every change in the weather, is flawed. If the interpretations proposed here hold any truth to them, then a fleet of Danish-Norwegian Vikings, already knowing the nature of English channel and its weaknesses, landed and slew a Saxon reeve who was already aware of the threat they posed and made demands upon them. While the brief sentences in the ASC and Aethelweard's 10th-century revision provide little detail, about Dorset at the time or of anything else, the fact that the sentences were written show how important it was for the event to be recorded, not only for contemporaries but also for later generations.

Dorset in the Dark Ages #4: The White Hill of Badbury

 

Photo credit: Jim Cuthbert of visit-dorset.com

The hillfort of Badbury Rings is among the most iconic of British hillforts, and archaeological evidence indicates that it was inhabited since the Mesolithic period, with use both as a centre of settlement and a centre of ritual activity. Only two miles from the river Stour (to the Durotriges, the Sturr), it was at the heart of a nexus of trade that continued into the Roman period; coins of the Veneti, Baiocassi and Dobunii have all been found near Badbury, the former two being continental Celtic tribes.

Either immediately preceding or during the Roman invasion of 43 C.E., the outermost ring of earthworks were constructed, but it was too late, and within the year the Romans had depopulated the hillfort, resettling the survivors, along with their own veterans, in the nearby village of *Windosklādiyos (White Hill), which they rebuilt as the settlement of Vindocladia. It was only later, beyond the 3rd century C.E., that this settlement was fortified, with an imperial mansio, or inn, built in the same period, by which time it gained an economic and political status equal to Duronovaria and Lindinis.  Nearby enclosures, such as Crab Farm, Lake Farm, and High Wood, were all reoccupied and redeveloped after the Roman invasion. 

Badbury might have briefly been reoccupied, as Maiden Castle (Duronovaria) likely did, during Boudicca's revolt in 60-61 C.E., as tribe after tribe rose in revolt against the crimes of the Roman army, but for centuries afterwards it was securely a monument of the past. The twilight years of Roman rule, as shown with the rebuilding of the Bokerley Dyke and of the smaller dykes in the south of Dorset, was characterized by the rekindling of old tensions and the remaking of old tribal boundaries, as raids and the wandering armies of usurpers eroded the material prosperity of Britannia. In the case of Badbury, rubble was taken from a nearby Romano-Celtic temple to strengthen the ramparts, which, on the basis of abandonments of other temples, must have taken place during the end of the 4th century, either at the time of the Great Conspiracy of 367 C.E. or later, during the usurpations of Magnus Maximus or Constantine III.    

The nature of the site during the 'Dark Ages', between the beginning of the 5th and the end of the 7th century A.D., however, is poorly understood. Badbury's imposing physical form and ancient past have led many to draw a line between it and the clash of Mons Badonicus, the Battle of Mount Badon where, as the Historia Brittonum and later romances elaborate, Arthur heroically won against the pagan Saxons, with the virgin Mary by his side, securing a half-century of relative peace. It must have been a strategically important site for the sub-Roman Durotriges, as a place to garrison an army, with a full view of the Bokerley Dyke to the northeast. While the dyke itself would have been easy for a Saxon force to cross, the looming presence of Badbury might have made them think twice about trespassing into Briton territory. The refortified ramparts were used well after the sub-Roman period, when the fortress was occupied by the army of Edward the Elder in 899 C.E., during the revolt of his brother Aethelwold.

Could Badbury, then, be the site of Arthur's victory? In old English, the name Badbury simply means 'Baddan's fort', which means either a Saxon or Romano-Briton gave their name to it sometime in te sixth century. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle for 501 C.E. states that three Saxon chiefs led their warriors onto the Solent coast, slaying a Briton ruler 'of very high rank' at what would later become Portsmouth. One of those chiefs is called Bieda, which has been connected by some to the Baeddan of Welsh romance, the son of Melwas, later Maleagant in French literature. Plausibly, therefore, Badbury might have been Bieda's temporary stronghold, before being wrestled from it by the Britons. 

There are better candidates for Badon, however; aside from a location near Bath, known to the old Welsh as Cair Baddan, several historians have proposed that Badon, first mentioned in Gildas' letter of denouncement as Badonici Montis, is a copyists' error for Bradonici Montis, on the basis that Brad- is a fairly common element in Welsh place names. Andrew Breeze, in his latest book on the subject, suggests that Braydon in Wiltshire, regarding the local topography, fits with the written evidence, but I would agree with Alistair Hall, who argues in his recent work The Battle of Mount Badon that either Bardon or Breedon Hill in Linconshire is a more likely site, given its proximity to the proposed location of other Arthurian battles, and the fact that the area was a centre of Romano-British culture until the middle of the sixth century, with a mixed polity of Britons and federate Saxons established in Lincolnshire proper and a larger Brittonic kingdom centred around York, or Caer Ebrauc. 

At the very least, Badbury would have played a substantial role in the political and economic fortunes of the Britons of the south and south-west, not just in terms of heroic leaders and fateful battles, but as a physical reminder of the legacy of the native inhabitants.