Our understanding of the past inhabitation of Scotland is constantly changing as our archaeology becomes more sophisticated and new interpretations are developed. That is part of the fun of archaeology: there is always something new to think about and to work on. I thought it might be useful to set out a quick framework for the principal terminology relating to the main periods that are identified. Although there have been many attempts to move away from a typo-technological cultural framework like this, none has ever taken off so that the main terms: Palaeolithic, Mesolithic, Neolithic, etc are still in use.

The ‘Three Age’ system’, which divided the remains of past societies chronologically by raw material was developed in Denmark in the 19th century. Stone Age, Bronze Age, Iron Age are names that still resonate today, though they have acquired additional meaning. Layers of socio-cultural significance were added in the early 20th century by archaeologists such as Gordon Childe and economic interpretations were subsequently developed by Grahame Clarke among others. The past is a complex place! It is still important, nevertheless, to have a basic understanding of the central framework. My own work is concerned principally with the ‘Stone Age’, which has, of course, been subject to much division and refinement. I also focus on Scotland and it is this that I shall cover here (and see here for more detail on both the National and Regional pictures).

The evidence indicates that ancient human communities have lived, on and off, in Britain for some 800,000 years, over which time there has, of course, been considerable environmental change as well as much change in the archaeological record. The very earliest communities were not ‘modern humans’, indeed, other species such as Neanderthals were well settled here. To date, the archaeological record for Scotland indicates a much shorter period of human settlement and one which only contains traces of modern humans: Homo Sapiens. This interpretation may well reflect the shortcomings of the way in which we study archaeology rather than the reality of the past. I’m guessing it is only a matter of time before we find older sites.

The evidence suggests that small Late Upper Palaeolithic groups arrived in Scotland in the thirteenth millennium BC, during the Late Glacial Interstadial, as conditions ameliorated after the last ice age. This was a warmer phase; the landscape would have been largely open but with some stands of low woodland dominated by birch and juniper. The human communities at the time share many characteristics with communities to be found further south in the British Isles, and on the continent, to which Britain was still connected through the landscape of Doggerland. The evidence indicates that they may have travelled long distances in the course of an annual round, and that they possessed detailed understanding of the landscape within which they lived and from which they derived all the resources necessary for survival. Large mammals such as reindeer are likely to have provided an important resource, and groups may have followed them and other species as they moved across the landscape. Population levels were very low and settlement may have been intermittent.

The Late Upper Palaeolithic lasted for some three thousand years during which time there was considerable climatic and environmental change. Communities had to be adaptable and resilient and there is evidence of this through changing technologies and behavioural practices, especially further south in the British Isles and on the Continent where archaeological evidence for this period is more abundant. In Scotland, the evidence to date focusses on characteristic stone tools, including particular types of tanged spear points, which allow us to compare different communities one with another. In general these groups are known to archaeologists as Hamburgian (with later subdivisions), though we have no idea how they would have named themselves. Around 10,900BC an abrupt return to cold conditions marked the period known as the Younger Dryas, at which point small local glaciers returned to some parts of Scotland. Current interpretations suggest that population numbers may have dropped dramatically at the time.

Around 9,700BC a period of rapid amelioration is recorded in the environmental record, and this marks the start of the Holocene, at which time conditions improved and vegetation increased, including the establishment of mixed woodland and forest. Population numbers grew and the marked changes to lifestyle allow archaeologists to classify the communities as Mesolithic. Life still revolved around a high degree of mobility and the acquisition of all the resources necessary for survival from the land, though this was a very different world to that of the Late Upper Palaeolithic. The evidence suggests that aquatic and marine species joined land mammals and birds as significant resources. Technological developments include the manufacture of small stone blades which could be shaped into microliths among other things, and a new range of bone and antler tools. Improvements in marine technology may have facilitated increased travel around the coast. Generally rising relative sea levels meant that this period saw the isolation of Britain as an island with the submergence of the final vestiges of Doggerland.

By 4000 BC changes to local lifestyles included the earliest archaeological evidence for farming in Scotland and this period is known generally as the Neolithic. Current interpretations indicate the arrival of immigrant communities bringing a dramatically different way of life from the continent (some great lectures on Neolithic Scotland here). Population levels grew and communities became more settled. In the east of Scotland the Early Neolithic occupation focussed on large timber halls which may have housed several families, though across the country a range of other buildings was also used. Changes to familiar everyday goods included the development of new types of stone tool that were less focussed on blade technologies, as well as the introduction of innovative materials such as pottery. Farming included the cultivation of a range of crops as well as the care of domestic animals such as cattle, sheep/goats, and pigs though wild resources were still used and some sites (permanent or transient), may reflect the use of different parts of the landscape for different lifestyles. Settlements were more permanent and increasing human impacts on the wooded landscape are visible. From around 3,200BC, further changes to the material culture evidence a social and cultural change known to archaeology as the Late Neolithic. The main settlements grew to comprise several households, in smaller buildings, and diverse monuments were developed for burial together with ceremonial sites such as stone circles.

The introduction of metal took place around 2,500 BC and, though it made little impact on everyday life at first, this period marks the end of the Stone Age and is known as the Bronze Age. Farmsteads and villages of round timber and turf houses became more common and there were different styles of pottery and other material goods. Metal goods were rare at first, but over time, the stone tools that had marked earlier periods became less common. Different types of burial and changes to the ceremonial sites suggest that there were marked changes to belief and ritual practice at the time as well as considerable social change.

Successful archaeology depends on the collection and study of evidence. It has developed over the years into a multi-faceted profession in which few grasp the full details of more than a handful of the possible specialisations into which we divide. The subjects we embrace can be as diverse as the social structures within hunter-gatherer societies, the isotope analysis of bones, DNA studies, animal migrations, flintknapping techniques, and detailed investigations of residues. It has become a forensic science.

The building blocks on which we rely comprise data which is used as evidence. That evidence is drawn from many different elements: it might comprise artefacts, bones, or soil samples, amongst other things. Archaeologists have to relate that evidence to the location where they find it. We study it, interpret it and construct a narrative that sets out how it relates to history, to the story of that place and its people.

On occasion, evidence is missing. This is most commonly due to local preservation conditions. Human bone is, for example, relatively rare on many early prehistoric sites, and this is often due to acid soil conditions which are not favourable for bone preservation. It is also, in some instances, due to practices which meant that bone (or whatever the subject of interest is) was not, by and large, deposited on that particular site. On these occasions, it is up to us, as archaeologists, to work out why something is missing. It becomes part of the story.

Very occasionally, where evidence has been absent, new research might reveal it. Sometimes our own prejudices have obscured our view; it is hard to recognise something if you do not think it should be there. Sometimes, new techniques or new circumstances reveal something that was previously unexpected. In general, the discovery of a new aspect of past life in a site or region is an exciting matter. It is a big step forward. It helps us to understand that region better. But, it is, in fact, much more than that. It also forces us to rethink the histories of other regions, in particular those that border our area of study. If, for example, you once thought somewhere to have been uninhabited, how exiciting to find traces of a population. How did they live? How did they interact with those around them? Many stories have to be rewritten. And, not least, why have we missed them in the past? How can we find out more about them? What happens if we apply these new techniques to the wider area, how does it impact on our understanding of the greater histories. It promises a whole new research environment.

I’ve written about this before with regard to Palaeolithic Scotland. For most of my professional life conventional wisdom dictated that Scotland was uninhabited in the Palaeolithic (Late Pleistocene). Indeed, when I was a student most people considered that the north of Scotland had been uninhabited until the Neolithic, some 6000 years ago. Finding evidence for Mesolithic settlement dating back some 8000 years on the island of Rum in the 1980s was more daring than I had originally realised.

Mesolithic Scotland is old hat now, and the first evidence for Palaeolithic (Late Upper Palaeolithic, or LUP, to be precise) activity here has moved from being tentative to well established. I feel privileged to have seen this change; it was a good move, (had I but known it), to specialise in something so obscure as the earliest settlement of Scotland when I graduated.

There is still a lot of work to do, nevertheless, before the picture of Palaeolithic Scotland can take its place in our understanding of the Northwest Europe. The picture is patchy and relies strongly on chance findings of stone tools. It is an exciting time to be working here. There is a whole new field of study and we have to build a framework to gather the wider evidence. We need to go back to basics and devise a plan of action. This excitement extends to our European colleagues who, particularly those in Scandinavia, are waiting to join forces and look at the bigger picture. The discovery of Late Pleistocene populations in Scotland will inevitably impact on their own regions.

For these reasons I was somewhat surprised recently to hear that a grant application had been turned down on the grounds that the recent recognition of evidence for LUP archaeology in Scotland was not of wider significance. Of course, the fault is ours for not emphasising the ways in which we will need to develop new approaches to find and investigate the evidence that has, to date, remained so elusive. Obviously, we did not draw enough attention to the interest this has generated among our colleagues in Europe. It is a reminder of the ways in which we can become complacent and assume that others share and understand our own excitement. When you work in a particular research environement it can be easy to forget that not everyone will share your perspective.

Weirdly, I also feel that it is a reminder of the ways in which understanding has changed. Research was very different for those of us who lived in a time when gaps in our knowledge were frequent. Today, we have more information and we can all become very focussed on small details.  We should never take the wider picture for granted.

I have much enjoyed a couple of programmes on television recently: Neanderthals – Meet Your Ancestors. Presented by a new name (to me at least), Ella Al-Shamahi, the series gets over some serious concepts and is a good example of the way in which it is possible to use modern technology (and expectations) to put forward detailed points without dumbing down.

Of course, there were some things that annoyed me. It appeared to start with the premise, which always drives me mad, that the presenter is a highly-knowledgeable expert who has undertaken the research single-handed. In most cases this is followed by a programme that negates the contributions of the numerous academics who will be interviewed over the next hour or so (and yes, I have been one of those academics, and yes, maybe I have a grudge). It seems to be a popular premise, driven, no doubt, by our worship of the celebrity and distrust of experts. In this case, however, there were two differences that worked to allay my fears. Firstly, Ella Al-Shamahi actually is a palaeoanthropologist, specialising in Neanderthals and the Out-of Africa dispersal, and currently studying for a PhD at University College London. Apparently in her spare time she is a stand-up comic, thus elevating her considerably in my eyes. Secondly, once underway, it was clear that she intends to confine her role to that of presenter: interpreting and entwining the detailed contributions of a plethora of specialists, each keen to make a particular point. At times she is more like a chairperson, mediating and encouraging discussion among the panel of experts.

The programmes incorporate some gimmicky modern technology, notably using the actor Andy Serkis to bring our Neanderthal ancestors to life using adaptive performance capture. But they don’t stray away from the discussion of complex issues such as the size and function of the hyoid bones and the niceties of Neanderthal vocalisation. Overall, they provide a successful background to current theories about Neanderthals and their way of life. I had to wait for much of episode one for the obligatory mammoth (which pretty quickly ended up being eaten), and there is some discussion of the world in which the Neanderthal communities of northern Europe lived, though the focus was on the people themselves.

That leads me to perhaps the most controversial aspect. The Neanderthal contribution to modern populations. There was a fascinating discussion of the many ways in which Neanderthal DNA survives and the roles it plays today. And, it goes further than that. Imagine what it must have been like to live in a world populated by not one, but several, hominin species. How much did they recognise one another? How much did they interact? Was there more empathy than that shown today by our own population to the great apes. I hope so. But, while we are all very keen to send off personal DNA samples and find out the apparent percentage of Neanderthal, Viking, or hunter-gatherer in our past, I wonder if we would be quite so keen to promote it in the present. Not keen at all, if our recent social attitudes to those who look different or come from different places, is anything to go by. Diversity of makeup is, it seems, fine as long as it is confined to history. It is ironic that we boast about our diverse origins then vote for insularity.

Of course, the Neanderthal contribution to our present makeup is safely that of ancient history. But it is an important contribution nonetheless. This series has done much to dispel the image of Neanderthals as knuckle-dragging savages. It is, hopefully, only the start of research that will open up the sophisticated, specialised world of the Neanderthal population of Europe in ways that we, ‘old-fashioned Cro-Magnons’, can understand it. Meanwhile, it also gets us thinking about our current position, predilections, and future, and that is no bad thing.

I have much enjoyed Neil MacGregor’s BBC Radio Series ‘Living with the Gods’. It is so nice to hear information from prehistory discussed alongside that from historical sites, all put into the context of everyday life today. Or, rather, everyday lives – his outlook has a chronological and geographical scope that is truly impressive.

I just have one, tiny, niggle and it arrived early in the series, in the “Lion Man’ episode, broadcast towards the end of October. The Lion Man sculpture is wonderful, just over 30cm tall, made of mammoth ivory, with the head of a lion and the body of a man. It is about 40,000 years old, and was found during excavations in a cave known as Hohlenstein-Stadel, in southern Germany. The figure is incredibly detailed, it is one of those pieces where you see new features every time you look at it. It is an iconic figure, not only for its prehistoric values: it was excavated on the eve of war in 1939, and lay in storage until the 1960s when the fragments of ivory were first pieced together. Further restoration work has continued, on and off, into recent times. I doubt that work on the Lion Man has finished.

My issue is this: MacGregor describes the makers of the Lion Man as members of a community for whom everyday life, mere survival, was a struggle. He notes that experimental archaeology suggests that it would have taken around 400 hours to create the figurine, and asks: ‘why would a community living on the edge of subsistence, whose primary concerns were finding food, keeping that fire going, protecting children from predators, allow someone to spend so much time away from those tasks?’ He paints an evocative picture.

I can’t argue with the fact that life for the Upper Palaeolithic communities of central Europe was very different to ours, and much less comfortable in so many ways. They were, after all, living in the middle of the last glaciation, just as the world was starting to cool to the extremes of the Late Glacial Maximum. They were hunter-gatherers, and mammoth were not the only exotic (to us) animal to roam the plains and mountains around them. Yet, the hunter-gatherer lifestyle is not always simply a mere quest for survival. Curiously, much research suggests that it is farmers who, all too often, lack leisure and struggle to make ends meet. Surely, the Lion Man is a pointer that the lives of those early hunters were more complex than we might once have thought. While it certainly suggests that they were only too aware of the fragility of life, even of their community, it is surely also a clear indication that they had time for so much more than survival?

There is, of course, plenty of other art from the period, even another, smaller, less well-preserved, lion man, from Hohle Fels some 20km away. As MacGregor points out, the people who made pieces like these were part of a deep tradition, they were certainly not novices, but for me he still seems to miss the point. These were communities for whom life encompassed so much more than the straightforward quest for food and personal safety. In the radio programme Jill Cook from the British Museum and Clive Gamble from the University of Southampton, tried, valiantly, to inject the feeling that these were not mere squat grunting savages, but I felt let down, somehow, that the enduring message was one of surprise that these simple people, so long ago, were capable of such wonders.

For me the message of the Lion Man is a powerful evocation of all that archaeology misses. It shows us that we should beware of misjudging our ancestors. It demonstrates that the evidence we excavate is but a tiny proportion of the goods and chattels of those who came before us. It is a stark reminder that, for all our scientific wizardry, we will never know what went on inside their heads. We will always miss out on the emotions, the successes, and the failures, of living in the past.

We can’t know the meaning of the Lion Man for the community who made, and used it. MacGregor is right to point out that it suggests a community with significant narratives and shared beliefs. It may even represent the physical manifestation of religion. In a way, that is detail. In the twenty-first century, the Lion Man is, once more, a powerful symbol, a symbol that can transcend time and connect us to the people of the past. We should be careful of underestimating them.

If you travel to Shetland today you will find a rather beautiful island chain that essentially comprises a series of steep hills. The topography is abrupt and dramatic; the landscape is gentler towards the coast, but in most places agricultural land is concentrated into small pockets. Numerous islands, of varying size, surround the main landmass.

Curiously, the islands have no indigenous land mammals. The evidence suggests that all, including otters and ponies, have been introduced by the earlier communities of Shetland. The early islanders were canny folk, well able to adapt their lifestyle and farming methods to make the most of the climate and conditions out on this north-western edge of the Atlantic landmass.

The history of the very specific conditions in Shetland brings to mind some pressing questions. If we go back far enough, to the millennia immediately after the Last Glacial Maximum, which ended in the northern hemisphere around 19,000 years ago, then a combination of lower relative sea-levels and land adjustment due to the weight of the ice mean that a great expanse of dry land connected Britain to the Continent. We call this land Doggerland and it is currently the subject of some serious research including work to investigate the topography, flora and fauna of the landscape.

Large quantities of animal bone have been recovered from Doggerland, from a variety of sources including fishing trawls and aggregate extraction. Much of this is Pleistocene, ie dating to before the present era, and it comprises the remains of mammoths, woolly rhinos, bear, lions, hippos, bison and so on. There are also elk and reindeer. And, of course, though they are rare, the remains of people have also been found.

Several of these species of animal were prey species that also occur on excavated archaeological sites in the countries that surround Doggerland, and there is a general assumption that the human inhabitants of Doggerland will have hunted them. It is, in fact, impossible to understand the early settlement of those bordering countries without taking in to account the hazy, but very real, idea that the hunter-gatherer communities who occupied them extended their ranges across lands that have since disappeared beneath the waves.

Indeed, when considering the recent re-discovery of tanged points in Orkney, the general impression is that they provide evidence of the fleeting presence of hunter-gatherer groups from Doggerland who, some 12,000 – 13,000 years ago, were keen, for whatever reason, to explore the north-west fringes of the landmass.

Which brings me back to Shetland. If it was possible for the Late Upper Palaeolithic hunters to access Orkney from Doggerland (whether across a stretch of open water or not), was it also possible for them to access Shetland? When, exactly, did Shetland become islands? If it was possible to get to Shetland overland, then it was also possible that Shetland was home to the animal species that flourished in Doggerland. Of course, you may say – there is no evidence for large mammals in early Shetland, but, I would reply – absence of evidence is not always evidence of absence. There has been little research in deposits of the right age in Shetland so it may be that the bone has just not been found. I’m not sure that we even know where to look. The dramatically lower sea-levels of the period mean that the Shetland we experience today is only part of the resource, only the tops of the Shetlandic mountains that the explorers of Doggerland would have known. It may well be that the best pockets of evidence lie underwater.

This is not just some fanciful questioning. If we really want to understand the nature of Shetland and its earliest population, then we need to understand its relationship with Doggerland. Although the arrival of the early farmers by boat and the animals they brought with them in fairly recent times, is well attested, it is possible, even probable, that there was an earlier Shetland, a place where herds of reindeer, or even mammoth, occasionally grazed and where, when they did, there were small groups of Palaeolithic hunters ready to make the most of the bounty of the land.

Meantime, you have to make do with our new paper, which is available to download here.