lisap

Merciless cold, relentless drizzle, unremitting wind: welcome to your South Shields holiday! Assuming that the atrocious weather precluded any outside activity at the site was my primary mistake today. Since warmth is infrequent for me in England, I sported three layers of clothing (long-sleeved t-shirt, short sleeved t-shirt, zip up cardigan) under my waterproof jacket, but I left my hair loose and flowing. I spent the day attempting to heat my frozen ears with arctic fingers, removing unruly hair from my mouth and struggling to contain the contents of my runny nose with a pitiful pocketful of toilet paper.

The morning was a repeat of previous activities: clean an area (in this case, the clay layer over Intervellum Street), carry out the cumbersome planning frame, adjust it properly on the grid (the site), illustrate the aforementioned clay layer, haul the measuring staff to the TBM (temporary benchmark), discover the back site number, add together to make the COL (collination), then take spot levels. One person stands with the staff, another with the drawing board, a third reads the levels and calls out the numbers so the others can record them. Scuttle to the unheated shelter (a reconstructed Mediterranean house) where you momentarily take refuge as you do the math necessary for obtaining the numbers of the spot heights, record pertinent information such as the context number, fill out the forms, file the drawing and grudgingly return outside.

Every two hours, take the mandatory, much needed, magnificent tea break. Wrap your wintry hands around a cracked, tannin-stained mug, watch the milk swirl into the glorious tea and hold your face close enough to that divine beverage and you’ll forget that the world outside is uncivilized. You’ll forget that you have to go back out there, but that tea will strengthen your resolve: you’ll be mentally and physically ready when that time comes.

After recording the significant information about the clay layer, the controlled destruction continued, beginning with the clay layer. Katherine, next to me, found two mandibles complete with teeth and a number of bones. For today, I uncovered one solitary sheep incisor. That is ALL I unearthed; however, I completed the entire drawing and the math for the spot levels, so don’t think I’m slacking!

When the inexorable wind transformed the importunate drizzle into horizontal rain, even the clearly insane archaeologists who had us contracting pneumonia in the name of science caved in. The student volunteers went home “to put on the heat!” and we meandered to the museum for a lecture on the history of the transformation of the Roman fort. I expect people aren’t all that interested in that, so I’ll spare those details (unless you all clamor for them).

One of the most intriguing aspects of the Arbeia site is the philosophy of the principal investigators is that everything can be removed from the ground as long as it is recorded. I am uneasy about this, perhaps as an American who considers “old stuff” so precious and vital. The idea that these broken, enigmatic foundations, satisfied in their solidity, will be deconstructed in order to obtain the secrets of a prior century. I adore ruins, but at the same time, I adore becoming the destroyer. I want to take down that layer of clay, annihilate the spoils, be the first to know the answers. I am conflicted.

I have a hooded sweatshirt, a packet of tissues and ponytail holders ready for tomorrow.