Laurence Earle

One of the exciting things about archaeology is that, just occasionally, something truly extraordinary comes along which radically changes the way we think about the past. One such moment came in 1900, when sponge divers working around the Greek island of Antikythera happened upon a shipwreck containing the single most important object of high technology ever recovered from the ancient world.

Millions of us grew up on stories of bravery among prisoners of war in the Second World War. What is less well known is that brutal treatment of British POWs was a feature of the 1914-18 conflict too. In all, 171,720 Tommies and their officers were captured during the First World War on the Western Front – from where they were allocated to one of 170 camps, dotted throughout Germany.

Who is Britain’s greatest military hero? In a poll of the general public, Arthur Wellesley, 1st Duke of Wellington, came in third place on 11%. In second, on 19%, was Field Marshal Bernard Montgomery. But the clear leader – with 27% of the vote – was Horatio Nelson, the inspirational admiral whose victory at Trafalgar is often regarded as Britain’s greatest naval triumph.

The word ‘experimental’ can be confusing, or even alarming. It suggests an area of activity in which people are pushing at boundaries, or acting somehow without official approval. Attached to the word ‘archaeology’, however, it simply denotes a field of academic study that uses controlled experiments to provide a better understanding of the past.

The most expensive secular building of its day, Dover Castle was described by the 13th-century chronicler Matthew Paris as ‘the key of England’. But though its imposing fortifications tower over the shortest sea crossing between Britain and the European mainland, it wasn’t built in response to any threat of imminent foreign invasion. Instead, its construction in the years after the murder of Thomas Beckett in 1170 owed more to the growing numbers of foreign dignitaries who began to make the pilgrimage across the Channel to Canterbury to pay their respects to the slain archbishop.

Britain pulled out the red carpet last weekend, as world leaders arrived in Cornwall for this year’s G7 summit. It wasn’t the first time in history that power and pleasure have been so mixed, however. Indeed, last week’s gathering would have seemed strangely familar to the 6,000 Englishmen and women who 501 years earlier accompanied their king, Henry VIII, as he crossed the Channel to join his French counterpart, Francis I, at the lavish three-week summit-cum-carnival known as the Field for the Cloth of Gold.

He was enthroned as Roman emperor at just 16. But history has not been kind to Nero’s reputation. According to the surviving sources, he was a matricide and a multiple wife-murderer, and he also stands accused of various other horrific crimes and misdemeanours. So does Nero’s name really deserve to have become a byword for depravity?

The news this week that the University of Sheffield is to press ahead with plans to close its school of archaeology has sent a shiver through the heritage world. It is a ‘devastating’ blow, said the Council of British Archaeology. Mary Beard, the eminent historian, called it ‘worrying in the least’. To date, more than 39,000 people have signed a petition calling for the decision to be reversed.

No one knows for certain why Viking Age people chose to bury their most treasured possessions underground. According to one 13th-century source, the influential Icelandic poet Snorri Sturluson, they did it because Odin – the Norse god who oversees Valhalla – had decreed that a man will have the use in the afterlife of any treasure he buried while still alive. More recently, however, archaeologists and historians have preferred more earthbound explanations for the presence in the British Isles of so many Viking Age ‘hoards’.

It is a matter of debate as to whether Captain James Cook was really the first European adventurer to set eyes on the Hawaiian archipelago. According to some historians, the 1778 arrival of the British seafarer’s ship, HMS Resolution, in the waters of the North Pacific island chain may have been preceded by a visit from the Spanish explorer Ruy López de Villalobos in 1542 – more than 200 years earlier. What is more clear-cut is the effect Cook’s arrival would have on the islands’ original inhabitants, who had themselves crossed the Pacific to reach these shores many centuries before. With colonisation rapidly taking hold, large numbers of immigrants from Europe and America introduced new diseases to which the locals had no resistance. This lead to a calamitous fall in the native Hawaiian population, from approximately 300,000 in the 1770s to fewer than 40,000 in the 1890s, barely a century later.