st. crispin | red fences and red tape

The notice on the door said “Time Team Office”. What were they doing here? Would I hear the Devonian drawl of Phil from the muddy confines of his test pit? Run into Tony Robinson, charging from point to point, illustrating physically some ancient distance?

Such thoughts disappeared as I entered the dark confines of the Administration Block, the tell-tale musk of damp and rot pervading the air. The security guard emerged from his brightly lit office; a small black and white portable TV, badly tuned, spewing noise into hall, the electric fire set too high.

I asked if we could look around the perimeter and take photos. He nodded, saying that we’d have to be off the site by five thirty. I didn’t think the light would hold out that long.

So we started looking at our potential film set, anticlockwise.