Sam Hall is a dedicated member of our education and public engagement team here at the farm, but as with all jobs at Butser there is always the opportunity to learn a new skill and get stuck in to one of the many projects taking place at the farm.

Here Sam reflects on his experience learning to thatch and helping out on the construction of our latest Iron Age Roundhouse- Danebury CS20.

Thanks Sam!

Butser Ancient Farm resonates with a long-lost past and all its traditions in many ways. From its own history of extensive archaeological research to the experimental structures which exist on site, the commitment of the Farm to expanding our own understanding of British prehistory (including, of course, Roman and beyond!) is clear for all to see.

Something else at the Farm which resonates with a deep-rooted practice of human society is the idea of skill-sharing. In many ways this is of course practiced today, although for entirely different reasons: usually it is in working multiple apps, devices, and machines. But what about when the machines disappear? The skill-sharing at the Farm instead focuses on traditional hand-crafts that are both physically and mentally demanding, in which you, and the small team with whom you work, become the determining agents as to whether it goes particularly well or not so much (no pressure!).

Luckily, in my first week thatching, the pressure was almost nonexistent, as I was working under the supervision of Paul Corrie. This meant that not only could I take the time to focus on all the aspects of thatching itself, but also that I could have that time to assimilate and learn the skills I would need to pick up. All of this is necessary to ensure that the reed roof of the new Iron Age roundhouse actually stays on - wouldn’t that be a good start?

Mistakes being a key part of any human labour, the idea of having sufficient time to actually learn multiple aspects of any one craft is what makes skill-sharing such a success. There is, unlike many parts of life today, no time to rush; doing so is likely to lead to more costly, time-consuming, and labour-intensive problems to fix.

Learning in this way makes historical sense too. It is one thing to live as part of a society, like we do today, which has a hyper-abundance of products. What of those prehistoric peoples who, to get anything at all, had to work hard at each step? The hazel rods, for example, making up multiple purlin rings around the heavy timber roof, would not have come to those people pre-cut and shaped already. Instead, they would have their starting point at the tree itself, to which they would have to take their axe (again, the result of a long process of iron ore extraction, smelting, forging, and so on) before carrying the timber back to wherever the new house was being built. Each step of the way was a learning curve for those people, with the time and energy invested being more precious than money; no machines could step in to replace their effort and dramatically reduce the time involved; it was vital, therefore, not to waste resources.

So, although my very first week learning to thatch a roundhouse roof covered a small portion of the third lift (or “level” of thatch), it provided plenty of opportunity to resonate a fraction more with how those before us had to go about things. Down to the seemingly minute details - for example, are the reeds spread thin enough? - and the unforgiving nature of thatch when tied on properly - there is little movement to push through, although that is needed to get the next bundle tied securely to the beam behind - the feeling of scratched, cold hands makes prehistory and its people feel incredibly close.

On top of that, the opportunity to begin this learning journey adds an enormous amount of value to the educational side of work at the Farm. Enabling the skills experienced and learned first-hand to be communicated with eager students puts a priceless value on the past and encapsulates what it means to bring to life practices and skills which are slowly being lost.