For me the greatest beauty of the English summer is the early sunrise and long, lingering evening which turns, so slowly, into twilight. Around mid summer it hardly gets dark at all. Those are the magical times. Past, present and future have no meaning. All that was, is and will be merge as one and exist simultaneously.

Some mornings for a few hours after sunrise, a thick white mist rises and blankets the land. Above, the sky is blue and cloudless and the spires and towers of churches appear through the mist. The tops of the tallest tress look like islands in a white sea. From high ground you can look down on this magic ocean and, if you feel inclined, weave stories. Maybe those stories come with the mist and not from your own imagining, for the white billows are a shroud for the present reality which releases the power of the past.

Sound is deadened. A distant dog may bark. A wood pigeon or cuckoo may call if the season is right but, generally, there is silence of the deepest kind. Mist also hangs on the surface of water which is glassy still and shows not a ripple.

Long ago, on just such a misty morning, I went to fish in the River Thames. The place I chose was Boulters Island at the end of the Cliveden Reach. Here the river is broad. On one side water meadows and the far bank, thickly wooded, rises steeply to a great height. The trees come right down to the water. There are hidden entrances to back waters, but they cannot be seen until you are right on them and, even then, a boat could pass them by without realizing.

It was early, maybe 4:30 a.m. I settled to fish aware of everything and yet aware of nothing. Upstream the mist clung to the mirror surface of the river. The powerful current drove it on, but not a hint of the water could be seen. If there was any disturbance at all, it was the wake of a waterfowl crossing silently from the shelter of one bank to the other. Nothing. Just perfect stillness.

As naturally as the piece of branch which drifted silently by a few feet from the bank came the steady, slow paced, sound of oars. I looked but saw nothing. Still the regular plash......plash grew closer. Up river, through the top of the mist bank, I saw a mast moving closer towards me. Now the sound of oars was accompanied by a steady creak each time a back stroke was taken.

The mast came nearer at the sound of each stroke and then, out of the wall of solid white mist, came the head of an amazing beast. Fearsome, brightly colored, great teeth and glaring eyes. Another stroke and the prow of a sleek vessel appeared. A man stood there. Huge, wild, long red hair and beard. On his head a metal helmet. What I could see of his body was covered in a rough sheepskin jerkin gathered around with broad leather belt from which hung a sword and an axe. As he peered ahead he leant on a spear which had a wicked metal tip.

More of the boat came into view. A line of oars, maybe ten on each side, swung slowly back before puddling the water and driving the boat on. At each oar was a man similar to the lookout and by each oarsman's place a shield hung on the side of the boat, round, covered in leather and heavily studded. More men stood in the center of the boat and one held the arm of a tiller listening intently to the directions of the man by the great figurehead. The sail and cross beam lay across the gunwhales unused and, at the top of the mast, stirred by the movement of the boat, was a pennant decorated with a black raven.

How long I watched that boat I cannot say. It stirred no fear in me, only an overwhelming sense of awe. Another sound broke the silence. I turned to look. A small cabin cruiser was approaching, getting an early start. When I looked back, the long boat had gone and the mist was clearing. Another hot day was about to begin.

NOTES

During the Dark Ages in Britain, Viking raiding parties were a regular part of life. Often using long boats, they traveled inland from the sea and may even have constructed boats whilst in Britain for use on inland waterways. Remains of such vessels have been found in land locked lakes.

Gradually some kind of order was established and a degree of containment for the Norsemen came about in the east and north of what is now England. It was called the Danelaw. Two big dykes or ramparted ditches were constructed not far north of the setting of this story. They are called Grims Dyke and Offas Dyke.

Boulters Island is near the town of Maidenhead about twenty five miles west of London on the River Thames. At the top of the steep wooded bank described in the story is evidence of some early settlements, burial mounds etc. Also the great houses of Taplow Court and Cliveden at one time the homes off the Desborough and Astor families respectively.

About Author
Ronald James was born in England in the Thames Valley and grew up there and in London. Much of his childhood when not at school was spent on a remote farm in the West of England where his lifelong involvment with the magic and history of rual England began.

Having made a career as a Fine Art Auctioneer in the United Kingdom, he is now living in the S.W. United States and has custom leather business specialising in unusual and historical items, especially those required by SCA members and re-enactors.

He is busy putting together conducted tours for small groups of lesser known historical sites in England with plans to commence in the next 18 months. For further information or comments e-mail ronaldjames@renstore.com.