My life in history

And why I think landscape has memory

Some of my earliest memories involve being fascinated by history. I traced my family tree with my fingertip, ‘Carrs’ trickling from the 17th century into the 20th, ending with me. I was given my first Kingfisher History encyclopaedia age around six, which is now a well thumbed favourite of my own children.

But history, for me, was not originally in books, it was on my doorstep. I grew up in first Cambridgeshire then Wiltshire and spent weekends visiting various historical sites, stomping up hill forts and clambering over stones. On one Saturday, scraping the barrel to entertain a precocious five year old, my dad took me to the picturesque village of Fotheringhay, where in February 1587 Mary Queen of Scots was beheaded. What was once the fine Fotheringhay Castle is now just a large field with a motte and bailey and bits of rubble scattered about the grass. Walking through it, you would do remarkably well to dodge the sheep poo, peppered about the place like little traps — never wear nice shoes in Fotheringhay. This, from memory, was my formative experience of history. My gateway drug.