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Great Medieval Grimsby

The remnants of medieval Grimsby were discovered this February by a team from York Archaeology at Grimsby’s Freshney Place redevelopment, near the historical Flottergate area. I used to visit this area frequently in the past but haven’t been for quite a while, so I love it when these medieval headlines crop up, it reminds me of what is always below our feet. The treasures that we never get to see, the hidden stories.

The first written recording of Great Grimsby appears in 866 AD, and by the time of the Domesday Book in 1086 the settlement had grown into a modest but established community, with around 33 families living along the banks of the River Haven. Its position on the estuary made it a natural point of exchange, a place where land, river, and sea met. The name Haven is no longer in use, but the waterway itself is at the heart of Grimsby’s dock.

On 11 March 1201, Grimsby’s most historic document, the town’s Charter, decreed that “the good men of Grimsby should be governed by a mayor.” From that moment, Grimsby held the right to self‑govern: to have its own court and its own officials, and by 1218, its first mayor. This marked the beginning of Grimsby’s rise as a town of regional importance. It is often the case that the importance of towns such as Grimsby gets lost over time.

During the 12th century, Grimsby developed into a thriving fishing and trading port. Fishing was its lifeblood, but its reach extended far beyond the Humber. Ships arrived from Norway carrying timber; vessels from Spain and France brought wine; wool left Grimsby’s quays for continental markets; and coal travelled down the coast from Newcastle. At its height, the town ranked 12th in importance to the Crown in terms of tax revenue, a remarkable position for a settlement of its size. “A comparable picture emerges in Boston, where its medieval stature has largely slipped from national memory.

The recent excavation beside the historic street of Flottergate (roughly meaning a place where boats were beached or floated) sits around 2–3 metres below today’s ground level, revealing what is believed to be the medieval ground surface (c. 450–1600 AD). This depth alone tells a story: centuries of building, rebuilding, and urban change have raised the modern town far above its medieval footprint.

Flottergate itself was once a bustling artery in the heart of medieval Grimsby. The adjacent Bullring formed part of a lively livestock market, and the area lay close to the town’s religious and spiritual core, between the Grimsby Minster and the Augustinian Friary.

Anyone who reads my posts regularly will know that I’m particularly attached to the Greyfriars story in Lincoln. The Augustinian Friary in Grimsby was founded some 60-70 years after Greyfriars and there is no evidence of Greyfriars (Franciscans)  ever establishing themselves in Grimsby.

The finds at Flottergate uncovered leather offcuts, pottery fragments, fish bones and oyster shells, and paints a vivid picture of daily life. Archaeologists believe this area may have been home to a leather‑working workshop, echoing similar discoveries elsewhere in the town. The wet, oxygen‑poor soil has preserved organic materials that rarely survive, offering a rare glimpse into the working lives of medieval craftspeople.

Together, these layers, documentary history, medieval trade, and the newly uncovered archaeology, reveal a town shaped by water, work, and resilience.

Grimsby has always been a place where people made their living from the sea, adapted to change, and rebuilt when needed. The medieval past beneath our feet is not just a record of what once was, but a reminder of the town’s long tradition of reinvention.

Source information: Grimsby’s medieval past unearthed during archaeological dig | NELC

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Ellis Mill – Lone Survivor

Built in 1798, Ellis Mill still reminds us of the skill, hard work and community strength that shaped Lincoln’s History. In the 1800s the city had a busy milling skyline, nine windmills stood along the West Common ridge, all perfectly positioned to catch the strong steady westerly winds that blew along this limestone escarpment.

Now the lone survivor of that once‑iconic line is Ellis Mill.

But before the Mill was built, there was almost certainly a post mill on the site. These were common mills in the 17th century and had a timber structure where the whole body rotated to face the wind. They were lighter and easier to build on exposed ridges, but as technology advanced they were gradually replaced. So, it was goodbye to the wooden sails and hello to the three-storey brick tower mill, with its distinctive ogee cap (a timber, S-shaped dome), fantail, and four patent sails.

Although it was purchased in 1894 for £250 by local miller and businessman, John Ellis, windmills were already in decline. Then after storm damage in 1941 and a fire in 1974, the mill stood derelict until a major restoration by the Lincoln Civic Trust between 1977 and 1980.

The mill retains important evidence of traditional milling technology, including gearing, stones, and cap mechanisms. In its recent past the reconstructed machinery has demonstrated how the mill worked, displaying a rare insight into historic processes seldom seen today.

Ellis Mill is of high heritage value for its rarity, architectural integrity, community importance, and contribution to Lincoln’s historic landscape.

It stands as a living reminder of the city’s industrial past and if saved from its current neglected state, would be a model of successful heritage conservation.

The mill is currently supported by a dedicated team of volunteers* who want to form a registered charity. That would let them apply for funding from sources like the National Lottery and Historic England. It sits beside the Museum of Lincolnshire Life, and is within walking distance of Lincoln Cathedral, the Castle and the Bishop’s Palace, which places it at the heart of a wider heritage cluster. This location alone merits its inclusion, investment and protection as part of this collective historic landscape.

*Lincoln’s last windmill needs you: volunteers wanted to save Ellis Mill — The Lincolnian

The Heritage Writer 2026

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On this International Women’s Book Day (OK, I made that up!)

I think International Women’s Book Day sounds great, a day for all us ladies to shamelessly promote our work. So, in it’s honour, I’m sharing extracts of my latest books below. The first two are from my upcoming HF novel Benedict’s Song. The next two from my soon to be released novella which is book 2 in The Dark Stranger series, sapphic romantasy The Storyteller’s Amulet. Enjoy!

He sang to escape his past—but every note carried him closer to it.

Lincoln, England, 1290. Late Summer.

Benedict’s mouth watered as a suckling pig was carried past him. The roasted meat fumes taunted him, and he let them dance on his tongue, but it was a fleeting pleasure, and the familiar smells of sweat, ale and piss soon chased them away. Above him, galley minstrels were playing a song that had been one of his mother’s favourites, “Chantar M’Estuet.” The competition for the new minstrel had attracted a great number of folk, boys dashed here and there with ale jugs, and cheers went up when trenchers were thrown. Shuffling backwards under a table and kicking the stinking reeds away to make a dry patch, he slouched against the leg feeling the scratchy knots of wood at his back. Then his father stepped into the middle of the hall and began to play a tune on his whistle.

Benedict waited until he got the signal from the guard, then he slipped through the door and down into the small ante-room ahead of where the bishop of Pamiers resided. As he had now done many times, Benedict waited until one of the brothers opened the door, then he handed over the letter he’d secretly carried and in return took the money pouch offered. No words were spoken, and no further acknowledgement of him was made. Benedict retraced his steps and was soon back with Richard behind the wall that protected the bishop’s residence.

“How much did you get this time?” Richard asked.

“The usual by the feel of it.”

The Storyteller’s Amulet

Etae as always, mumbled to herself as she read the scene where the girl ends the romance with the queen, ‘go with her, be happy, don’t marry the man!’ and even as she uttered the words, the ending of the story started to re-write itself, and she smiled as she read the ending she preferred. It was her favourite thing to do, re-write the stories with the happiest of outcomes, ones which other girls like her would love to read. She had never knowingly met anyone who felt as she did, but as always when she pondered on this, she reasoned that she couldn’t be the only one. Her thoughts were interrupted by the fluttering of a small piece of paper that fell from the pages. Curious, she retrieved it from the floor, held it in her palm and read the words. ‘Fierce women re-write the “hero’s journey” to make room for women at the centre, they delight in cleverness, surviving by wit rather than brawn, and dream of love and stepping beyond the ordinary, imagining infinite possibilities.’ As she looked at the paper she could have sworn that it seemed to be breathing, and she could feel a slight pulsing as it rested in her palm.

Etae’s heart raced and she couldn’t stop herself from gasping, it took all she had to stand her ground and not run back up to the apartment, locking the door behind her. On seeing her, the intruder visibly jumped and seemed just as startled as she was. They pushed the book away and looked up, and as her hood fell back she finally revealed herself. Etae thought the face was one of the most beautiful she had ever seen. The woman’s skin was ebony, her eyes were blue and her lips were full and pink, they looked as soft as rose petals and Etae couldn’t help staring. The stranger’s hair cascaded onto her shoulders, rivulets of tightly woven dark hair with coloured ribbons running through it. She looked like a spirit tree in human form. Etae’s breath left her. This was who she had been scared of and had caused her to sleep fitfully for the last few nights. There was no other colour about the woman apart from a locket that hung around her neck, it’s blue-purple stone shining in the dim light.

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Only Being Creative Can Hurt Like This

https://vocal.media/education/a-post-viva-outcome-a-space-in-the-wilderness-a-scene-of-destruction

Studying creative writing and reaching for the stars can be an assault on the soul as Shelley Dootson-Greenland explains..

#shelley dootson-greenland; #phd; #viva,; #creativewriting