Panning for Stories

Most writers I know hunt for stories for inspiration. Sometimes they’ll spend their time trawling through news stories, scrolling through social media, watching obscure documentaries. I’ve always been more fed by objects. I spend a sad amount of time in charity shops and car boot sales. Sometimes it’s for treasure I keep or sell, but also because I love researching unusual objects – and filling in the blanks. I may do a podcast or a Substack or both about the thrilling objects or stories I’ve unearthed, but for now I want to share about a new, but related, string to my bow in this scavenging domain. I’ve become a mudlark!

Mudlarks are licenced beachcombers who scour river banks for treasure. In Victorian times, they were impoverished children searching for scraps of metal to sell for a pittance. These days its more of a middle class weekend hobby. And you need a licence, and they’re difficult to obtain, I was on a waiting list for two years. But come it did, last week, and this weekend I hit the foreshore of the Thames, by Hammersmith Bridge, with my trusty trowel.

This is my haul. A WWII ammunition cartridge! It’s a German 1935 Mauser round, potentially live, as the bullet is not spent, but it’s so corroded it’s surely fine. Still, I’m a bit nervous to go at it too aggressively with the old Brasso, so have contacted the police offering to send them photos to ask for their advice. I have no idea why there’s German ammo at Hammersmith, but this is what the serial code says… (and this is where a story is suggested).

The next most interesting piece is what I thought was an old poker or part of a Victorian railings perhaps. It’s clearly been in the river a long long time though. I cleaned it and it’s a Georgian mooring pin, hand forged. Not an antiquity, or of any value really, other than it’s a great example of working river hardware, and representative of the context in which it was found. It was likely used to moor a private boat belonging to one of the Georgian houses in the parade above the bank, the closest of which was built for a mistress of the king. I wonder what pulled it from its root, what storm or getaway? Therein lies a story.

It’s going to my fireplace, a fake poker for a fake fire (good that it’s a non-working fireplace coz, for now, my unspent nazi bullet is atop the mantlepiece). Not bad for my first haul.Then an assortment of the usual, 17th century pipe stems (broken) and various medieval nails, and broken glass and pottery. So many stories.