‘The Rudlingtons lived peacefully and in harmony with their surroundings for many centuries. They enjoyed a relatively idyllic existence, although there were times, as for all of us, of hardship and change. Their deep connection with the great bittern did much to preserve the bird’s population through those halcyon years but, ultimately, was also a major factor in their demise’
Much of the following information has been gleaned from the kind people of our historic county. I would like to thank them for their willingness to share the old tales and fables, told to me over many a scrubbed pine table, or deeply sat in treasured chairs, fire warmed and mellowed.
I also found much knowledge within the collected writings of Thomas Gunton, former rector of the lost chapel of St Walstan’s in the Marsh near Kenninghall; his travels around the county and subsequent memoirs proved enlightening.
My particular gratitude must go to Old Mr Grimmer of Swaffham. His songs and poems, with the wonderfully evocative accompaniment of a bodhran, were invaluable and unforgettable.
Introduction
The Hrēodlyltlan, those most secretive and little known ancient inhabitants of this area, are arguably the most familiar to many of us, their memory living on through folklore and fiction as it does.
Referred to in some early contemporary accounts simply as The Dromblers, due no doubt to their close relationship with the great bittern, they were a diminutive folk of fen and mire. But for my purpose here I shall refer to them by their later, common name…The Rudlingtons of Norfolk.
Part 1
Deep in the misted mires, amongst the vast holds of ancient reed beds of what we now know as Norfolk, lived the Rudlingtons.
A secretive and hardy folk, they are distinguishable by their diminutive stature, rarely reaching much over four feet in height. They had a slim, wiry physique with long clever fingers and were capable of marvellous artistry, as well as great feats of endurance. Their hair of face and head was of varying shades of grey, as were their slightly protruding, observant eyes. However, these and their small noses were the only features visible through the profusion of facial hair which, unusually, was present in both sexes. The women commonly braided theirs into complex geometric designs, whereas the men generally preferred theirs to remain unkemptand even went so far as to add pieces of lichen and spider web to emphasise the fact.
Although the common tongue was known to them, they were not quick to speak it, preferring instead to communicate through patterans and kinesics, alongside an array of natural environmental vocalisations. There is anecdotal evidence to suggest that they regularly used small reed instruments in avariety of tunings to help facilitate this. These hung around the neck and appeared rather like a form of panpipe.
Such was their ability in mimicry and camouflage, being able to apparently ‘melt into air afore my eyes’, that they gained a mystical reputation among outsiders. Mutterings of magick were commonplace and this developed into a tradition of local farmers leaving gifts of wool and flints at the edge of the marsh at the winter equinox. How this first came about is lost but there is no doubt that the Rudlingtons treasured these items.
Nevertheless, their staple commodity was the phragmites reed and most of their clothing was made from it. This generally consisted of close fitting flexible tunics of flat, double woven reed, with finer woven leggings forming waterproof and very durable garments. It is assumed that these outfits were lined, or more likely stuffed, with wool for added insulation. The footwear was strong, woven boots reinforced with woody reed stems and tied with tough alder roots. These boots had wide flat soles that prevented them sinking into the marsh but the most distinctive feature of their attire was their conical, woven caps they habitually wore. Adorned with bittern feathers and the flowering tops of reed, these could be very elaborate and,whilst no doubt used for camouflage, there was almost certainly the added element of an individual’s social status involved in the design. The subtle differences in arrangement and patterns were only interpretable by others of their kin.
Reed was also used for their dwellings. Within the fen there are always small areas of higher ground that, although perhaps only a few feet above the surrounding marsh, provided a relatively safe and dry refuge on which to build. The little we know of these abodes is that standing and cut reed were utilised to form merged, interwoven structures. These were strong, flexible and wind proof and, when steeply thatched, blended seamlessly into the surroundings. The one reference we do have suggests that they were very precisely and intricately constructed, then obfuscated with added material and in that sense they resembled the ubiquitous, camouflaged caps. It has been further suggested that they may have also used muds and clays to seal gaps but, given the many accounts of their mastery of basketry, I doubt this was necessary.
Part 2: Of fishes
Heart of reed and nymphaea root provided the families with staple basic carbs which they supplemented with foraged seeds and berries. But their great love was fish. Small perch were a firm favourite with the children; they loved to create fine combs out of the leftover, spiny fins. However, unlike most other people who lived close to water, all Rudlingtons detested eel and pike. Their true passion was the golden crucian. Sitting together around a peat oven, sharing hot baked crucian whilst taking draughts of their dark, sweet ale, brewed using malted reed and lily seeds, was the closest thing to a religious ceremony these folk had. Even the children partook of the ale and it was one of the few occasions when they removed their caps, apart from when sleeping.
So highly prized were the species, that the Rudlingtons delved shallow pools hidden deep in the marsh, in which they planted lilies and stocked with golden crucian. These nymph pools shone like gems among the reeds and were fastidiously maintained. If you know where to look, some of these pools still exist to this day, mainly in private gardens and on rambling old estates, hidden in the woods and meadows that have replaced much of the old landscape. And if you are very lucky, you may find some that still contain the descendants of those original treasured fish.
A little known fact is that the men-folk loved to angle for the crucian and no other method of capture was deemed appropriate or acceptable. This was probably done as a mark of respect but the men’s pride was also doubtless involved. At first they used simple willow stick poles but these quickly developed into wondrously fashioned tapered wands of split and dried reed stems, glued together with birch bark pitch and decoratively bound with the red and yellow roots of willow and alder. The line was lengths of gossamer braid, usually formed by the children as their small fingers were more suited to the extremely fine weaving that was involved. Bait could be insects or berries, but they favoured small pieces of soft, sundried reed-stem dough, moulded around tiny, bone hooks.
The men would then wait, silent and motionless at the water’s edge, for the slightest twitch from a wary crucian. My suspicion is that dreams of golden flanks flashing in the sunlight as they battled their mighty quarry often came to nothing and they would trudge home for a repast of plain warm porridge and berries. But this, I think, is as it should be.
Part 3: Of Bitterns
Little is known of much of the social structure of Rudlington society but there is no doubt that the great bittern formed anintegral part and were interwoven into the fabric of their lives. This fact did not go unnoticed and stories told among the locals quickly spread further afield, becoming more exaggerated as they went.
One account, related to me by Old Mr Grimmer, told of a visiting labourer passing the marsh one afternoon. “Blast me, thair wuz a rare rum ol’ splashin’ an’ a-yarkin, when orl o’ a sudden oi see a sight ter freeze a mortal ter the spot. Oi tell yer stret now, that he’d the body o’ a boomer an’ the hid o’ a man.” It seems the fellow then hurried off in fear of his life. This particular story can certainly be explained by the young male Rudlingtons’ dubious pastime of butterbumping. This involved creeping up unnoticed on a bittern (by no means an easy undertaking) until they were close enough to leap upon its back. They then held on tight for as long as possible, whilst attempting to avoid the painful stab of a powerful beak that would eventually dislodge them from their seat.
It is easy to see how some of the more outlandish tales of shape-shifting creatures and of hobbes riding on the backs of bitterns, searching for new-born children to swoop upon and steal, came about, eventually becoming entwined into country lore and told as bogge stories to keep unruly youngsters in check. But, as with all these things, the truth is somewhat less dramatic, though equally strange in its own way.
It seems that very young bittern chicks would be taken from nests and trained, much like the eagle hunters of Central Asia, except these birds were not trained to hunt. Instead, they were prepared as guardians to watch over the boundaries and, more importantly, the precious nymph pools. Each pool was certainly known to have its own sentinel, or tēmian as they were collectively known. The majority of this work was carried out by the women and they were intensely attuned to all aspects of the care of their wards. It is believed that each of the tēmian was given their own phonetic name and it was through these unique vocalisations that quite complex communication was possible. In this way, lifelong bonds were established. It was the tēmian the young boys targeted in their butterbumping. The birds themselves were relatively tolerant of it but, understandably, the boys’ mothers were less so.
The fact is, these remarkable birds were revered throughout Rudlington society and wanted for nothing. Although still semi-wild and quite able to fish and hunt for themselves, the women would provide them with an abundance of eel and other favoured delicacies to ensure their continued co-operation in maintaining this mutually beneficial arrangement. In return, the tēmian would remain forever watchful and give warning of danger, as well as helping to rid the precious pools of vermin. …And, of course, provide donations of a few feathers from time to time.
The Rudlingtons lived peacefully and in harmony with their surroundings for many centuries. They enjoyed a relatively idyllic existence, although there were times, as for all of us, of hardship and change. Their deep connection with the great bittern did much to preserve the bird’s population through those halcyon years but, ultimately, was also a major factor in their demise.
Part 4: Of Endings
When a new breed of man arrived in the middle centuries andbegan to drain the fens for farmland and grazing, stories reached them of these magical birds which piqued their interest. Their obsession grew and they started to ruthlessly hunt them, believing that consuming their flesh would impart magical powers. Later still, they became prized trophies to be preserved and displayed by the people of power, that now took ownership of all and who brought with them their clamouring mallard to claim the vacant haunts as their own.
With the demise of their beloved birds and destruction of their home ranges, the Rudlingtons too faded away, mere footnotes in a new world of greed.
Part 5: Of now
There exists in certain small communities of Norfolk, particularly amongst the older folk, the tradition of Littletithe. This takes place on Christmas eve morning and involves the hanging of coloured strands of wool, on twigs and bushes, alongside waterways and pools: gifts to the spirits of the marsh.
It is also spoken of in some quarters that small groups of Rudlingtons lived on well into the nineteenth century, finding sanctuary in hidden and secret remnants of fen, protected by sympathetic benefactors. I believe I know of such a place. Notably, it is close to the site of where St. Walstan’s sank, to be engulfed completely by the bog. Perhaps, then, the old rector knew a lot more than he was prepared to commit to paper.
So as I sit and write on this grey December day, the still airsuffused with the damp woody smell of decay, my mind is resolved. I shall make a pilgrimage to that secret place and leave my own yuletide gift to the Hrēodlyltlan. Mayhap I shall be rewarded with that rarest of things, the deep wump, wump of a distant foghorn on a winter’s day…or possibly, the muted chime of St Walstan’s bell mourning the passing of a folk, the like of which we will never see again.
The following verse was translated by Old Mr Grimmer from a Latin inscription carved on a stone at the ruined church of St. Theobald’s, Great Hautbois:
‘The Mire dromble he boometh loud
Whilst undercover his body shrouds
Where Dromble creeps and eyes beguile
Reed men follow in single file’
Afterword
I feeI I must recount this most memorable of encounters, experienced during my research into this history.
I visited Mrs Cooper at her home in Aylsham and after much tea, cake and reminiscences; this lovely lady insisted I look at her late husband’s curio cabinet before I leave. This slightly dilapidated piece of furniture stood large and incongruous in a corner. It was blackened with age and had small wobbly glass panes that were divided by the finest of astragals, set in full length doors. It was full of bizarre and interesting items, many of which I could not tell their purpose. There were lots of rock crystals and unusual stones, with one being labelled, ‘The Walsingham Meteorite’. A collection of feathers and blown eggs, fossilised shark teeth and the sun bleached skulls of small mammals were there. Among a shelf of carved African tribal figures, a small indigenous American totem glared balefully at me from three pairs of eyes.
I noticed, tucked behind this, at the back of the shelf, what appeared to be a tattered roll of tightly bound brown paper about a foot long and the diameter of a little finger. It had a very aged label attached with the word ‘Ruderodde’ in a faded and barely discernible spidery script. Fascinated, I examined it more closely and saw that it wasn’t in fact rolled but appeared moulded with an angular profile and what I’d assumed were string or cotton bindings, were of another material entirely. It was extremely fragile and I was loath to pick it up, lest it crumble to fragments in my fingers. As I continued my inspection, now with the aid of a torch, it became apparent that, despite the ragged ends and general degradation, it was a very finely fashioned artefact of great age.
The shock of sudden realisation set my pulse racing. Incredibly, here in a modern house in a town in Norfolk, was a remnant of one of those ancient crucian wands. It was a moment full of emotion and wonder, one that I shall never forget.
Margaret could not provide any further information other than to say that much of the collection had been passed on from father to son for several generations. Upon seeing how enamoured I was, she very kindly offered the ‘Ruderodde’ as a gift. But how can a person reasonably accept such a thing? I left it in the care of the thunderbird whose glare softened as I gently pushed the crooked doors closed.
Writing – Knight Heron, Illustrations – Kestrel, Langmere, Norfolk, Winter 2024
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