Reculver - A Tale From The Past

Reculver

     A tiny caravan perched near the edge of a cliff, that wobbled when the wind blew, was where I spent my first few holidays as a child in the early 70’s. There was a shingle beach, usually a lot of foul smelling seaweed, and very little else there other than one tiny shop, a stall selling pie and mash, and an incredibly small arcade with a few penny machines in it. Desolate as the place was, it had some appeal for me, and most of it centred on the ruins of the Twin Towers of Reculver Castle which held, and still does, a certain fascination for me.

     My elder sister and brother seemed to take great delight in telling me that Dracula, Frankenstein, along with various other monsters, resided there with the sole intention of eating small children who wandered too close. My mother, on the other hand, didn’t like the place at all and seemed to be more than happy to avoid it as much as possible, which was perfectly understandable considering the history of the place and the ghosts some people believe haunt the site.

   

    Reculver was an important Roman fort by the name of  Regulbium or Raculfceastre (Ceaster meaning Roman walled town), which then became the Old English Raculf, was built during the early 3^rd century AD possibly during the reign of the Emperor Severus with the intention of guarding against the marauding Saxon forces. Controlling the northern entrance to the Wantsum Channel, which was approximately 3 miles wide at the time, and cut off the Isle of Thanet from the mainland, the fort stood on a promontory at the north end of the channel where it joined the Thames estuary, albeit over the centuries the Wantsum silted up and became dry land. Even now, despite the coastal erosion it’s still an impressive site that’s visible from nearby Herne Bay and Margate even.

    When the Romans abandoned Britain in the 5^th century AD the fort fell into ruins and seems to have been left unused until 669AD when an Anglo-Saxon monastery was built upon them, and this lasted until sometime during the 10^th century whereupon it appears to have evolved into the parish church, which was dedicated to St Mary, there. The towers which make it such a rarity ( most churches only have one) were added in the 12^th century and the building survived until 1805 when it was partially demolished with much of the stonework being removed to be used on another church on higher ground at Hillborough where , due to the incessant coastal erosion , the Reculver community seems to have relocated, The twin towers however, were left standing, and were purchased by Trinity House four years later who underpinned the site to allow it in all likelihood to continue being used as a landmark to guide shipping.

   

    Canterbury Cathedral is home to two columns from Reculver which can be found in its eastern crypt. In 1852 Joseph Brigstocke Sheppard, who was to become keeper of the Cathedral’s archives, was visiting a friend’s orchard near Canterbury and quite by chance discovered several large stone drums which he recognised as those that made up columns from the old church which caused him to contact Charles Roach Smith, the author of Antiquities of Richborough, Reculver , and Lymme which led to Canon Robertson purchasing the remains of the columns and placing them within the Cathedral’s Precincts. When Sheppard located more remains on a local farm they too were recovered – the pair were then displayed in the Water Tower Garden until 1932 when, with a donation of £144 (slightly over £7000 by today’s standards) from the Friends of Canterbury Cathedral, to their present location.

     Reculver has of course, like so many of these old sites, its fair share of legends and ghosts and has been the subject of many paranormal investigations with varied results to say the least. Saturday nights can be rather busy there with the semi- professional groups that vie with both amateurs and the thrill seekers who attempt to discover its secrets – this combined with the occultists who attempt to perform their works there means that it is no easy place to work with to say the least. It’s a fact that the local radio stations and taxi firms can interfere with recording equipment which is a real hindrance to the serious investigator.

    Tales of Roman soldiers, hooded figures, spectral monks, crying children, sailors, soldiers, airmen even, abound within the realms of prurient urban myth yet, no doubt to the amazement of some, despite the tales growing longer in the retelling there are, hidden away amongst the Hall of Broken Stones (as I refer to the place in my books) some grains of truth to be discovered.

    In 1966, which was the year I was born, skeletal remains were found under the foundations of the Roman barrack block when the site was excavated - some theories claim they may have been sacrificed by the Romans to help ‘protect’ the fort , whilst others suggest they may be older and of Celtic origin . Certainly many reports can be found on the internet, and on You Tube especially, which claim to have recorded the sounds of crying children, shouts, moans, and various other phenomena . Are they real, misinterpreted or corrupt data, or even blatant fakes?  Even if you watch them you’ll still have no real feel for the place, or be any wiser as to what’s really there- to do that you’ll have to visit Reculver, and if you do you may well be in for a surprise. Hopefully it’ll be a pleasant one. 

    What now?  I could copy and paste a few tales of the abnormal activities and phantasmic fantasies that seem to be prevalent, quick and simple as it would be, but I don’t know if any of them are actually true - so I’ll supply you with one that I know is. How do I know it’s true? Because I know the people involved all too well.

     Those of you who remember them will have to cast your minds back to the 1970’s , pre decimal – when real money still existed and not all this toy-town stuff foisted on us. If you weren’t around back then you’ll have to use your imagination, and regret the fact you missed out on the last few years before the rot set in. Showing my age? Absolutely, and grinning while I do so. Why is for a future post and that’s all I’ll say on the matter. 

   To set the scene then -  it’s early evening, yet dark. Most of the light available comes flickering through the windows of caravans where people are settling down for the night. Peaceful even, the waves rolling gently over the shingle beach are accompanied by the calls of those seagulls still floating about in hope of finding scraps. It’s all part of the adventure that makes for happy memories of simpler times. Even with the Towers rearing up out of the gloom, and how they loom in the sight of the boy who, despite the tales told by his siblings of the place in an attempt to frighten him, can feel the threat of the place in a way that his family cannot.

   The sounds he can hear emanating from the place confuse him- as if there are frightened children there, and a low murmuring that he will later come to recognize as chanting. Questions asked about them are either ignored, or brushed aside as childish imagination, something he gets used to far too quickly. To fetch dinner, however, they must head on - and that brings them closer to the shadows that confuse him even more, for shadows there are, and they are not where they should be. 

    It takes minutes, yet seems far longer to the child, and as they trudge back up the slope to their caravan he notices a change in the atmosphere. Clutching his hand tightly his mother has suddenly begun to walk faster, dragging him along with some urgency. Risking a glance behind, and almost falling in the process, he can see that something appears to be following them- a hooded figure that is some way back but gaining ground.  Attempts to point this fact out are responded to with a hissed request to be quiet and hurry up, yet he knows that she has seen it too.

    On reaching their tiny sanctuary it becomes clear from the way the door is hastily pulled shut and bolted that the boy’s mother is worried. Chilly as the evening is, the caravan seems to have become colder as their meal is hurriedly eaten. A low, keening, call comes from outside- seemingly far off, yet near at the same time which lingers momentarily then fades. The rest of the night is spent quietly, for the child’s mother is clearly rattled by the experience, and when they finally go to bed sleep comes far quicker than usual.

     The following day sees them back on the beach, albeit not so far along this time lest they stray too close to the towers. No mention is made of the previous night’s events, and the boy knows better than to press the matter. They return there, for their holidays, for the next few years and he can often be found sitting sketching the place, or just sat staring at it , and not once will anyone think to ask him why.

 

   Truth is often stranger than fiction, so the saying goes, so why not find out for yourself and go there. Even of the best of days it’s noticeable that the ruins, and not just because they’re ruins, have an aura about them that is just not ‘right’-something is wrong there, very wrong. Perhaps the best thing would be for the sea to reclaim it, and free whatever is trapped there for once and for all- and that is all I’m saying for now.

                        D W Storer  2018/2019