The programme had a lot to recommend it. It covered the investigation in detail, explained the thought processes of the team, why they were using the particular techniques in question, how they drew their conclusions, and the contribution made by the study to pre-existing research. One of the very positive features lay in the way in which the significance of landscape archaeology was emphasised. There were, however, negative aspects, not least the way in which research on Stonehenge was presented as exclusively a male preoccupation in which the female contribution was confined to presenting a running commentary linking us to previous research and the wider Neolithic world. Of course, this is a very necessary contribution, and one which is often overlooked. Nevertheless, to present women as passive commentators in the active world of archaeology does not reflect the reality of the profession and, more importantly, can hardly be encouraging to those considering entering the profession for a career.

I’m not totally naive and I understand why media coverage has to focus on the spectacular. It plays a significant role in keeping people interested in the minutiae of our investigations. But, there is a whole other world out there, one which rarely makes the national stage, though it does, increasingly and satisfyingly, get smaller-scale publicity.

Every week, if not every day, a host of local people gird their loins and venture out, whatever the weather, to walk and re-walk fields, to check the shores of lochs and rivers, to scan the dunes and cliffs of eroding beaches. Some take fancy equipment, others a simple bunch of plastic bags and a gps. Some have years of archaeological training, most do not. All have oodles of enthusiasm and experience.

These people are all archaeologists and their contribution is as significant as that of those who make up the high-profile teams. They find, and record, the nuts and bolts of the past – small sites, unremarkable finds: the detritus of the sort of everyday lives that most of us live. These are the lives that were experienced by people in the past. They are the lives that archaeology seeks to unravel and illustrate.

High status, glitzy, sites carry a reward of their own but they do little to illustrate the commonality of ordinary life in the past. We learn little of what it may have been like to be a Neolithic farmer while watching the presentation of the newest pits to surround Stonehenge. While those who bring this new detail to life and reap the rewards of media attention are certainly to be applauded, surely it is the host of hard work that goes on to unpick the details of the rest of the traces of the past that we should really be acknowledging. The people who find joy in the ‘boring’ material, who undertake the daily trudge come wind and rain; people on whom we can rely to continue to unearth the tiniest of details however mundane. They do not seek status or reward. But their contribution is no less important – to me it is more significant. Lets not lose sight of their input.

And, to return to a bugbear. We live in a diverse world. Diversity existed in the past. Archaeology is a diverse profession. Surely we do not need to make much of an effort to reflect that in all we do?

obscure the narratives that we build about past lives. We also have to be careful that our own, twenty-first century, boundaries do not encroach on our interpretations of the past. (You might argue here that it is impossible to avoid personal bias; perhaps it is more accurate to say that we need to be aware of the ways in which our lived experience can skew our ideas about others, both those who live in other circumstances and those who lived in other times).

In my own experience, there is quite a strong divide between the domestic sphere of life and the spiritual side. While I don’t completely eschew the spiritual side at home, I tend to make use of specialised locations elsewhere in order to practice it. Thus, while I might ponder on the future of humanity while doing the washing up, or discuss the meaning of life after a leisurely meal, I would usually visit a church or other specialised location in order to celebrate a wedding, mark a funeral, or participate in ceremonial occasions. I do not have any particular fittings or furnishings at home to assist in ritual devotion, nor is there any particular corner of my house that is set aside for worship of any sort.

Of course, this does rather depend on your definition of devotion. I have a larder: could that be a space that is set aside for the celebration of food. I have a garage, though before you state the obvious, I would point out that I do not keep the car in it, it serves more as a repository for rubbish between my infrequent visits to the tip. The cat has its own special corner (which it ignores). In general, I think that my household, with its primarily secular design, reflects most households in the communities with which I am most familiar.

What I am trying to say is that in the society I know and love we have buildings for ‘living’ and we have buildings for spiritual devotion, and we keep the two sides of life very separate.

This is not so in all cultures, and it most certainly was not so everywhere in the past. It may not even have been common. Dwellings may well have included space, even furnishings, that was set aside for contemplation and worship. ‘Spiritual’ may well have been an integral part of ‘domestic’.

The Neolithic settlement site of Skara Brae in Orkney is known for the well-preserved suite of stone-built furniture to be seen inside the houses. A significant part of this lies in the shelved units that lie on the far side of the room from the entrance. These would have been prominent to those entering the space and in the nineteenth century they were ascribed the rather prosaic name, and use, of ‘dresser’. Today, many archaeologists would recognise the likelihood that they blended everyday storage and display with a deeper layer of meaning to include aspects of spirituality and ceremony. Yet, when asked to refer to them in a television documentary as ‘shrines’, I found that hard. The, to me, over interpretive nature of the term, felt wrong.

Whatever the nature of the Skara Brae furnishings, one mark of the successful archaeologist in the twenty-first century lies in their ability to eschew the rigid definitions of the past and embrace a more fluid world where all is not necessarily as it seems and boundaries are there to be challenged. Those who lived a strictly religious life still had to eat, prayer allowed those who built houses to assure a future.

Pigeonholes are useful – but should not become all-embracing. When we look at a space, we should try to blend the possibilities of interpretation.

While others were perfecting their sourdough recipes, or embroidering replicas of the Bayeux Tapestry, I was working with the members of Mesolithic Deeside and various associated archaeologists to produce a publication of the first three years of work of the group. The final words might be mine – but the hard work was undertaken by many others. I had a wealth of reports and field notes, all supplied by the team, from which to hone our document. There were also extensive photographs, maps and drawings – all put together through the talent of others.

Did we succeed in producing an informative but readable account? Download it from the link here and judge for yourself. I think it is a fascinating story, but then I am biased.

The other thing to note here is all the help and expertise we have received from others. From the National Lottery Heritage Fund who provided the funding that got the group going, to Aberdeenshire Council Archaeology Service who were always there with support and advice, and Historic Environment Scotland who have supported the final publication, as well as many, many other funding bodies along the way. Then there was the fantastic team at the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland who edited and published the final report as part of their wonderful Scottish Archaeological Internet Reports series (wonderful not just for the content but also because it is freely available – not a paywall in sight). And so many people along the way. Community archaeology is a brilliant evocation of the variety of skills that can be brought to bear on unravelling the past when people care.

I won’t say that there were not moments when I woke up in the middle of the night and despaired at the size of the task I had taken on. But for me the end result justifies those odd moments of reflection (and I do love writing).

The work of Mesolithic Deeside continues. No matter how much we know about the work of the past, there is always more to learn. If you want to join in, get in touch with them. It is fun – and healthy! And hopefully there will be more volumes like this one: the finds, and sites, since 2019 are already beginning to mount up!

linked to the absence of an overseas workforce. The infrastructure on which we depend for everyday life relies on the maintenance of mobility.

The roots of the situation are deep, though perhaps only recently have they impacted so deeply across society. Throughout the nineteenth century those who could afford it could access an increasing variety of exotic food and goods from across the British Empire. Equally, the Empire relied on the flow of British goods to the far-flung corners of the earth in order to supply those who managed it with the vestiges of British comfort to which they were accustomed. Prior to that, the incremental, if slow, passage of foodstuffs and materials into Britain, from spices to silk, goes back many centuries, though in general the goods were only available to a select few.

In recent decades the experience of travel has moved from goods to people, and touched a wider section of society as prices dropped and the ‘benefit’ of the package holiday to some far flung sunshine became a commonplace aspiration. At the same time the rise in private ownership of cars meant that people enjoyed a more fluid lifestyle than before: we could live further from work, we could keep in touch with family even when we moved 100 miles or more away. With this we took many things for granted, though we may not have thought much about them. Modern medicine meant, for example, that, despite the increased traffic, the dangers of importing a serious disease into your community: plague; smallpox; or typhoid perhaps, were no longer a worrisome consideration.

There was a time when travel was the privilege of the few, the wealthy, or those with specialised occupations. There was a time when travellers were viewed with suspicion because of the health problems they could herald. A time when quarantine was regarded as a necessary safeguard for the community, rather than an expensive irritation. Journeys were the stuff of stories for cold winter nights: The Odyssey; Viking Sagas; The Lord of the Rings. Most of us would never have seen ourselves on journeys like these, but it was entertaining to imagine others making them.

Over the past century or so we have become accustomed to travel, and we no longer fear it. Indeed, we regard it as an inalienable right. Whether we are making the journey ourselves or just enjoying a pineapple or glass of red wine shipped over from warmer climes, it is hard to imagine a life where our experiential boundaries lie within walking distance of home (my mother was required to live within walking distance of the London hospital where she nursed so that she could get in to work whatever the weather or other problems).

Right now, however, the assumption that mobility is an essential foundation of society is challenged on several fronts. There are short-term issues relating to the flow of goods and people around the country. There are longer-term issues (I hope), related to the climate-cost of transport (personally, I feel that some of our biggest problems lie in the difficulties behind our determination to maintain current levels of private transport from cars to cheap flights). And now there is a third issue, somewhat ironic: despite our love of overseas travel, we are suddenly faced with the very real prospect of importing unwanted variants of a new, and in some cases fatal, virus when we do go abroad. It is the first time in over a century when we might, perhaps, feel alarmed about this. And yet most of us are, seemingly, happy to take the risk, happy that modern medicine can conquer all. Or are we? In some small communities there is a very real tension between those who wish to welcome the tourist traffic that now sustains the economic basis of life, and those who would prefer to keep visitor numbers low in order to maintain low levels of local transmission of disease. Some have made the decision not to leave home just yet, others have been anxiously following government travel guidance and are booking winter sunshine.

There is no easy solution, and, individually, none of us is in control of our fates. Interesting times though, to watch how the crises play out and see whether our addiction to mobility changes.

At first, I was just straightforward shocked. How could anyone think it ok to publish this sort of piece in 2021. Then I was annoyed by the inaccuracies in the excerpt I read (the piece was behind a paywall and I refuse to subscribe to read rubbish). Finally, I realised that the two ‘issues’ are linked.

Interpretation in archaeology is a changeable feast. Views that were once acceptable are refined and reconsidered in light of contemporary thinking. New information adds subtlety and events or attitudes are seen in new ways. There is no universal truth, no ‘right’ answer. Students of archaeology learn as much about how we study the past, as they do about what may, or may not, have gone on. They develop new ways of seeing the world around them. They think about people, places, and material culture in different ways. Horizons are expanded, actions seen differently, landscapes unpicked. A degree in archaeology is like a portal to another world. Many worlds, in fact.

But those worlds are rooted in carefully curated data and method. You learn to be flexible, you learn to change your mind, and you learn to be discerning.

Whether or not we need more archaeologists (perhaps a topic for another blog?), I fear that the reduction in opportunity for everyone to engage with the discipline is eroding the stability of society. Trite, ill-informed, words that stir the emotions are easy. Curiously, the authors rarely stay around to participate in any ensuing discussion. Whether you get your idea of the past from school, television, college, newspapers, or magazines it matters that it be based in contemporary wisdom. Of course, if we get rid of enough of those who study the past, or if we sideline their discipline, then contemporary wisdom can be flawed.

Right now, I feel we are at a cusp. We still value the role of the specialist in providing the building blocks on which we base our views of life. But, and I am not sure why, apart from a general feeling that it is often easier to ignore the sometimes inconvenient details, there seems to be a move towards poorly informed attitudes based on gut reactions related to possible outcomes. Perhaps we all feel more uncertain about the future in the emerging post-pandemic/globally warming world of ours. But no matter how strongly we wish to believe that we can continue our current lifestyles if we shut our eyes to the unviability of existing consumption levels, it just won’t work. We do need to engage with the science.

The same applies to the study of the past.

Well-informed archaeology (in terms of both data and technique), can be used to make sure that our assumptions about the present are rooted in reality. Whether I like an argument or not, we do it no favours if it is based on inaccurate information.

We might not always get the past we’d wish. We might not always welcome the present we deserve. You might not want to be an archaeologist. You might not care about what went on in the centuries and millennia before the twenty-first century. But to cut back on opportunities to learn about and study the discipline of archaeology is always going to be shortsighted.

Of course, that is not the case. We rarely have personal names or recognisable families, and there are still many gaps in the evidence for which we need to use ‘plausible imagination’ when conjuring up our narratives about past communities. My experience over the past week or so has highlighted one of these gaps, in particular, for me.

We were not a big group, but I was surprised just how tired we all got – a condition that seemed to be made worse by our lack of recent familiarity with the level of social interaction in which we were indulging.  It made me think about the invisibility of conversation and banter and their role as vital parts of our social lives. I draw my own sense of being, and, indeed, much of my self-confidence, from the interaction I have with others. Yet they are almost impossible to track archaeologically. We can infer information from elements such as room size, but we never know precisely how space is used. Nor do we tend to have the sort of detail that indicates social conventions such as hierarchies of communication. I learnt my Spanish in a family setting in Chile where children still spoke to adults with deference using formal verb constructions. It has left me feeling very uncomfortable when introduced to the parents of friends in Spain for whom my use of a formal construct would leave them with the impression that I wished to consider them more as a bank manager. The sort of grease by which a society operates smoothly often leaves little archaeological trace. Yet it is as important a part of the well-being of the community as the presence of a functional hearth.

In Orkney we are privileged because we do have one glimpse into the social conventions of the past. The Orkneyinga Saga was compiled towards the end of the twelfth century from pre-existing oral histories with the aim of presenting a popular narrative history of the Norse Earls of Orkney and Shetland. It is undoubtedly idealistic, stereotypical, and often fictional. But it provides a lively and colourful account of individuals, the ways in which they interacted, and the things that they considered important. There are family relations that bring to mind the writings of Austen or the Brontës. There is fashion, conspiracy, travel, poetry, drinking and, above all, life (well – quite a lot of death actually). Now, Orkney has a fantastic repertoire of archaeological remains relating to the period. Without the Saga few would complain that our interpretation lacked detail. But with it we can move onto a different plane. The cathedral of St Magnus built by Earl Rognvald is magnificent, but when you enter it and think of the Earl who worshipped there, who most certainly saw the building as a reflection of his own importance, and yet was not above heading out with peasant fishermen to assist with the catch – well then you experience the site in a totally different way.

As someone who specialises in the archaeology of some of the earliest communities in Scotland this sort of detail is, realistically, beyond my professional grasp. But occasionally, it does not hurt to be reminded of it.