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Dykes and ditches

The British Isles are littered with dykes and ditches, many of which are of unknown origin. In England there are dozens, some of which are very substantial earthworks stretching for miles across the countryside.

Because many have names with an Anglo-Saxon derivation they have previously been assumed to date from that era, possibly erected to defend against invading Viking armies. Some, such as Offa's Dyke (the only one credited to an individual), are certainly Anglo-Saxon. However recent excavations have begun to suggest that many are much earlier, dating from around the Roman withdrawal from Britain around 410AD.

If that is the case the dykes paint a picture of a country unified under the Romans disintegrating into old tribal factions once the central power-base was gone (rather as happened more recently with Yugoslavia). The construction of the dykes would have coincided with the refortification of some Iron Age hill forts. It is an intriguing notion.  

The Oswestry Old Racecourse and Offa's Dyke walk, featured in the book, is free to download once you have joined as a member of Walkingworld.

Below you can read the full chapter from the book.
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In the centuries after the Romans left Britain and before the arrival of the Normans in 1066, a considerable number of long linear earthworks were constructed across the country, of which Offa’s Dyke is the best known. They were clearly designed as defensive barriers, but who built them and against what threat is largely lost in the mists of time. This was, after all, the period that we call the Dark Ages.

In the past many of these formidable structures were attributed to the Anglo-Saxons and presumed to be fortifications against the invading Danes and Norsemen. Certainly many of the names by which they are now known would appear to have Anglo-Saxon derivations. But, Offa apart, these names usually refer to legendary rather than historical figures or places, suggesting that the original purpose of the structure was very quickly superseded and forgotten, even by Anglo-Saxon times.

In Cambridgeshire a well-preserved linear earthwork now called the Devil’s Dyke does appear to be Anglo-Saxon, dating from the sixth or seventh centuries. The dyke stretches seven miles to the west of Newmarket, from the fen edge at Reach to the claylands at Woodditton, and is the last in a series of defensive linear earthworks that stretch south-west, including Fleam Dyke, Brent Ditch and Bran Ditch.

The Devil’s Dyke may have been constructed by Penda, the Saxon king of the East Angles, to protect the East Anglian Saxons from the Britons to the west. Stretching across the open chalk lands between the impassable fenland to the north and the thickly wooded land to the south, it would have formed an effective barrier. The Britons often fought on horseback while the Saxons were usually on foot, so the dyke and ditch, possibly filled with thorny bushes, would have prevented the use of cavalry in a confrontation.

The monument has had several recorded names. During the Middle Ages it was regularly known as St Edmund’s Dyke, because it marked the limit of the jurisdiction of the abbots of Bury St Edmunds. There are also references around the same time to the Great Ditch. During the 11th century siege of Ely by William the Conqueror, it is referred to as Reach Dyke.

Devil’s Dyke or Ditch is a post-medieval name: as so often, a supernatural provenance is ascribed to a monument, landform or structure whose original purpose is lost in the past. One local legend is that the Devil came uninvited to a wedding, perhaps at Reach church, and was chased away by the guests. In anger he formed the groove of the dyke with his fiery tail. In another a king called Hrothgar made the dyke with some local giants to ward off a fire god, or fire demon, who had taken a fancy to his daughter Hayenna. In the early stages of the conflict the fire demon looked to have got his way, at which point the giants fled. But Hrothgar had the presence of mind to scratch a breach from the river, allowing a thundering cascade of water to flow into the ditch, extinguishing the fire demon and freeing the daughter.

Archaeological excavations suggest that many of the other dykes were built during the last years of Roman occupation in Britain, or soon after the Romans left the country to its own devices some time around 410 AD. Wat’s Dyke, which sometimes runs parallel to Offa’s Dyke, was once considered to be the work of Offa’s predecessor Aethelbald, predating it by just a few decades. Now there is some evidence that it was built several centuries earlier. Likewise, archaeological evidence from the eastern section of Wansdyke in Wiltshire suggests it was made in the fifth or sixth centuries, after the withdrawal of the Romans but before the arrival of the Anglo-Saxons. When the Saxons came upon the dyke, they named it after their god Woden; hence it became Woden’s Dyke and, eventually, Wansdyke.

It is possible, then, that the earlier dykes tell a quite different story, one of inter-tribal warfare in the decades following the withdrawal of central Roman power. They would coincide with the refortification of some of the Iron Age forts. What we have is a picture of the disintegration of a country into a host of factions, with the rapid resurfacing of tribal loyalties held at bay during the Roman occupation. It must have been akin to Yugoslavia falling apart in the late 20th century.

The sheer number of dykes indicates widespread disruption to the British economy, with loss of trade and communication between the opposing groups. Some of the dykes appear to protect major trade routes, but others cut through them, as Fleam Dyke in East Anglia does the Icknield Way. The aim may have been to control trade, but equally it may have been to prevent it altogether. In the latter case it would not have taken long for the whole damaged and dissected country to descend into isolated subsistence farming and a bitter fight for survival between scores of small tribes.

Such a situation may have made it easier for the Anglo-Saxon incomers to move in and take control of an attractively fertile land. Although the Dark Ages were dark in the sense that there were several centuries without written records or even a minted currency, it was not long before parts of the country regained their prosperity and long-distance trading resumed. There were, of course, new threats from around 800 onwards from Norse and Danish invaders (the ‘Vikings’) keen to snatch riches but also to settle. There is little evidence, however, that dykes played a major role in the sometimes bitter warfare that ensued: in fact it was King Alfred’s ‘burhs’, a series of well-fortified towns, that saw off the Viking armies towards the end of the ninth century.

Offa’s Dyke
David and Chris Stewart take a short walk along the ramparts of Offa’s great dyke with their dog Brough.



If many of the dykes were thrown up by British tribes before or soon after the Roman withdrawal, Offa’s Dyke must have been one of the last of these grand linear structures to be built. It is recorded as the masterwork of Offa, King of Mercia from 757 to 796. There is no contemporary record of the construction but Bishop Asser writes a hundred years later that ‘a vigorous king called Offa… had a great dyke to be constructed between Wales and Mercia, stretching from sea to sea’. There is some argument over whether Offa’s new construction actually did join the Bristol Channel to the Irish Sea, or whether this was simply in conjunction with Wat’s Dyke and other earlier ditches.

Far from being a petty tribal chief, Offa could lay claim to being an overlord – a ‘bretwalda’ or ‘wide ruler’ in Anglo-Saxon terminology. This was not the king of a single country in the sense that we would recognise it now, but rather the dominant overlord of all the minor kings and leaders of the realm under his command. And dominant he certainly was, bringing much of current-day England from the south coast to the Humber under his control.

The job called for constant vigilance, as other kings would flex their muscles from time to time. The people of Kent, occupying a valuable link to the continent, had a habit of falling out of line. In 775 Offa raised a force and attempted to put them right. On this occasion, in a battle at Otford near Sevenoaks, he seems to have been defeated. In 785 he tried again with more success. The process of subjugation would have involved a good measure of brutality, followed often by much conciliation and displays of renewed friendship and generosity.

Offa had a keen sense of the importance of PR and was determined to reinforce the legitimacy of his reign. This was particularly necessary as he had come to power in a coup d’état, seizing the throne from Aethelbald’s successor Beornred, about whom little is known. He made a great show of his friendship with the powerful Charlemagne. He also understood the importance of being anointed by the Church, although like many Anglo-Saxon leaders his Christianity was perhaps driven as much by pragmatism as true faith. When the Kentish Archbishop Jaenberht failed to supply sufficient assurances of support, Offa went over his head to Rome and got his own archbishopric established in Lichfield.

And as far as his currency was concerned, Offa went to exceptional lengths to have coins of ostensible quality. Some of the beautifully struck portraits show him almost in the guise of Roman emperor. He also had coins made with the image of his wife Cynethryth, just as Roman emperors used to do. Offa’s Dyke fits in with all these endeavours to be recognised beyond the boundaries of his kingdom as well as within it.

The real role of the dyke is something of a mystery but there are clues in its construction. There are no forts or garrisons on its entire length, which would indicate that it was not intended to be defended. There would, however, have been clear sightlines for signalling, so warning of a Welsh force gathering at the border could have been communicated very quickly. Equally importantly, it would have provided a swift route for bringing an opposing force directly to the point of danger.

These would have been entirely practical functions, but no doubt the dyke also served a purpose as a statement of power and ownership. There was no capital to the Mercian kingdom: Offa was an itinerant leader and had to be. Only by making your presence felt on a regular basis could your supremacy be maintained. This was kingship by travelling about, complete with your entire retinue, tents for stays where there was no suitable lodging, treasure and money for gifts and of course men at arms for security. He would have travelled by poorly maintained Roman road and by any manner of rough track and way. It must have been incredibly tiring. Offa’s reign is extraordinary therefore for its length – many kings only lasted a few years before dying of natural causes or worse.

Establishing your land rights by walking was pretty standard practice at the time, at every level. On a local scale pacing the land was integral to the doling out of property rights. In a world without maps, parcels of land granted to followers and religious houses were defined in charters. Hundreds of these Anglo-Saxon documents have been incorporated into succeeding deeds, so although the original may no longer exist the gist has been maintained. A charter involving a piece of land had a section describing its boundaries, tracing natural features and linking prominent landmarks. In a few parishes the tradition is maintained with the ‘beating of the bounds’, with the youngsters of the village alternately beaten (very gently nowadays) and given rewards as they circuit the parish boundary. The idea was that younger villagers would be forced to remember the defining waypoints of the parish boundary, should there ever be a dispute in later years.

It is quite possible, then, that the dyke served an important purpose as the delineator of a national boundary – a property charter but on a very large scale. Natural borders to Offa’s realm, like the Channel and to a lesser extent the Humber estuary to the north, were relatively simple to identify and defend. Elsewhere, Offa would have had to deal with endlessly troublesome neighbours. Having decided, after a number of fruitless campaigns, that he couldn’t conquer the Welsh he opted instead to draw a line in the sand and define his kingdom rather than extend it.

So Offa would have known his land intimately and in a very practical way, because he paced much of it with his own feet. Walking along the parapet of the dyke today, it’s intriguing to think that the man who ordered its construction might have done the very same. All along it makes use of the natural boundaries that do exist, linking and reinforcing them rather than inventing an entirely manmade line. Perhaps this is an integral part of its function: to make the image of a significant natural boundary where one didn’t really exist before.

The dyke would certainly have reinforced a sense of belonging on ‘this side of the fence’. It is likely that the construction was done by gangs from tribes offering annual service to the dominant king. By bringing in tribes from across Mercian-controlled England, it is conceivable that Offa completed the job in a single year, with every group returning with tales of how they built something incredible to keep the rebels out.

It’s a nationalist sentiment that has endured, giving rise to the notion that ‘it was customary for the English to cut off the ears of every Welshman who was found east of the dyke, and for the Welshman to hang every Englishman whom they found west of it’ (George Borrow, Wild Wales, 1862). This particular assertion almost certainly has no basis in reality, but the idea of setting up those ‘beyond the pale’ as dangerous outsiders would certainly have been in the mental armoury of a ruthless leader like Offa. Significantly, the word ‘Welsh’ derives from the Germanic word for ‘foreigner’. ‘Cymry’, on the other hand, is probably derived from the Celtic word ‘combrogi’, meaning ‘fellow countrymen’. The dyke was not just a physical partition; it was a cultural one.

We are still deliberating on which section of Offa’s Dyke to walk when I find myself summonsed to Shrewsbury Crown Court as a prosecution witness. It seems a good opportunity to visit a section of the dyke we have not walked before. As the Crown Prosecution Service will be contributing to our overnight expenses, we splash out on a posh country house hotel right on the Welsh border. The Pen-y-Dryffn promises fine food and drink, is happy to house the dog, and sits just a stone’s throw from the dyke.

We know that Anglo-Saxon kings set great store by being able to provide their followers with great feasts and quantities of ale: it was part of the deal that helped to see them through the hardships of battle, travelling and hunger. The packed mead halls described in the epic poem Beowulf, which some commentators think may have been written for King Offa himself, spring vividly to mind. It seems appropriate somehow to be tucking into a lavish dinner at the Queen’s expense, in return for services rendered at court the next day.

The court appearance turns out to be a slightly disconcerting affair. My memory of the incident, involving two young men racing on the motorway, has faded after more than a year. I strain to recall the details. The defending barrister asks if I recall seeing a silver Ford Fiesta. I don’t but, trying to be helpful, I venture that it could have been one of the cars in front, hidden behind a cloud of burning rubber. The judge chides me gently: ‘Please don’t speculate, Mr Stewart. Just stick to what you saw.’ After ten minutes of doing my best I am dismissed. It’s a salutary reminder of how unreliable memory can be. The fact that no one recalls the purpose of a clutch of imposing post-Roman earthworks begins to seem less surprising.

We make our way from our hotel in Rhydycroesau up onto Racecourse Common. Here Offa’s Dyke runs along the edge of a ridge alongside the grass strips of Oswestry’s old race course. From the car park we soon join a wide band of well-cut grass as it arches round to a tight right-hand bend before a long open run along the top of the common. A bulky stone statue with horses’ heads facing both ways, placed here in the 1990s, commemorates its history as a sporting venue and as the boundary between England and Wales.

For a good century from the early 1700s this was a popular horse racing circuit for the local gentry. The annual meetings were a big event, with horses charging around a two-mile loop on this plateau 300 metres above sea level. In the early 19th century things were still going well – so much so that a stone grandstand was built at the southern end by the dramatic final bend before the finishing line.

But this was the beginning of the end. By the 1840s the gentlemen race-goers were getting increasingly disenchanted. Gambling, drinking and pick-pocketing were rife, the whole affair was becoming rowdy and, worst of all, the lower classes were winning the races. The arrival of the railway in Oswestry was the final blow, allowing spectators, horses and competitors to travel elsewhere for their fun. In 1848 the course was abandoned. Stone from the grandstand was plundered for housebuilding, though the foundations remain as a good spot for a picnic.

From the racecourse we take a path through the woods, which drops down to meet Offa’s Dyke. The wide deep ditch of the dyke still stands out, even though erosion and the pounding of many feet have done their best to level it. In places great trees have grown up in its banks, their root tentacles helping to hold it together. The path runs along its line, sometimes on the apex of the banks, sometimes within the ditch and sometimes on the outer edge. It must have been a popular walk in past decades as strange grottos and seating areas have been built from stone blocks, providing resting places and viewpoints along the way.

Walking along the dyke, as we do now for a mile or more, it’s clear that this was no agreed boundary. The earthworks are substantial – 65 feet across and 10 feet deep in places – and they all favour the Mercians rather than the Welsh. Rubble dug up to make the ditch was all piled on the Mercian side. Rather than running along the ridge of the hill, the dyke is frequently built into the Welsh-facing slope, so the advantage lies with a Mercian force above the dyke as well as on it. Here the dyke sits 100 yards or more to the west of the ridge, on the side of a reasonably steep hill. Nowadays the hillside is wooded but no doubt a corridor of bare ground was maintained either side of the dyke during its working life, allowing the Mercians a clear view of the enemy. The top of the bank may well have had a wooden palisade, making it an even more formidable barrier.



Reaching the southern end of our section of the dyke, we cut back on a lower path, dropping through woods towards the stream below. The dyke swiftly disappears into the trees above. However, as we climb up again along a gentle incline we meet it again, its great banks now experienced from below – the Welsh perspective. The earthwork has been used as the line for a drystone wall, no doubt for the simple purpose of keeping stock on one side, though this too has tumbled down and now any animals are free to roam at will. A wooden gate lies uselessly, propped up against a pile of mossy stones. From here we rejoin our outward path and head back to our hotel.

The dyke’s purpose was undoubtedly short-lived, partly because Offa’s family swiftly lost its grip on power. Offa went to great lengths to have his son anointed as his successor with the blessing of the Church, but after his death his carefully laid plans crumbled away. Offa died in June 796 and his son outlived him by just a few months. Without a surviving dynasty to maintain them, the wooden palisades on Offa’s Dyke probably rotted away, or were filched for timber or firewood, within a few short winters. It may not have been long before Offa’s Dyke, like all those other great ditches, was simply a weird earthwork, built by strangers.

 

Below is a list of other walks visiting Dykes and Ditches:

Cambridgeshire

Denbighshire

East Sussex

Essex

Flintshire

Gloucestershire

Herefordshire

Hertfordshire

Lincolnshire

Monmouthshire

Powys

Shropshire

West Sussex

Wrexham