I live in the East Midlands, smack bang in the middle of Viking territory. From the upstairs windows of the house you can see the Trent flood barrier, the modern(ish) earthwork which in theory will save the world should the mighty river Trent decide to burst her banks and call in unannounced.
Obviously the chances of a flood would be lessened if the Trent was dredged once in a while but no, I don't think the river bed has been dredged since the old king died and consequently the level of the river bed is continually rising as it silts up.
But enough of that, I'll stop banging on before I start sounding like a climate protesting vegan (that said - Hellman's Vegan Mayo - perfection in a jar!) and get back to what I was going to say.
Yes, the Trent, and more importantly, what came up it:
I mean they absolutely must have sailed past the land upon which this house is built. They may even have marauded through the marshes and stood in what is now the garden to admire the magnificent sunsets we still have here.
Do you know what else they might have considered doing if they'd thought on?
Better still, burying it under what today started to take shape as my vegetable garden.
Now I know that Vikings (along with the Anglo-Saxons and later the Normans) didn't tend to bother too much with easy-mix concrete, but I was still hopeful when the shovel sparked against this:
Particularly as it seemed to go down some way. Obviously I ended up on my hands and knees, carefully brushing away the soil (and unearthing a rat's skull in the process) but did I find viking treasure?
I found this. The remains of a late twentieth century bloody clothes line.
The moral of this little tale is this:
Never judge a woman who drinks a shedload of gin when it all goes tits up .
Sometimes it helps!
Bottoms up, folks!