At Home - Bill Bryson [23]
All this is just another reminder of how little we know, or can even begin to guess, about the lifestyles and habits of people from the ancient past. And with that thought in mind let’s go into the house at last and begin to see how little we know about it, too.
* In Britain corn has meant any grain since the time of the Anglo-Saxons. It also came to signify any small round object, which explains the corns on your feet. Corned beef is so called because originally it was cured in kernels of salt. Because of the importance of maize in America, the word corn became attached to maize exclusively in the early eighteenth century.
• CHAPTER III •
THE HALL
I
No room has fallen further in history than the hall. Now a place to wipe feet and hang hats, once it was the most important room in the house. Indeed, for a long time it was the house. How it came to this curious pass is a story that goes back to the very beginnings of England and a time, sixteen hundred years ago, when boatloads of people from mainland Europe came ashore and began, in an entirely mysterious way, to take over. We know remarkably little about who these people were, and the little we do know often makes no sense, but it was with them that the history of England and the modern house begins.
As conventionally related, events were straightforward: in AD 410, their empire collapsing, the Romans withdrew from Britain in haste and confusion, and Germanic tribes—the Angles, Saxons, and Jutes of a thousand schoolbooks—swarmed in to take their place. It seems, however, that much of that may not be so.
First, the invaders didn’t necessarily swarm. By one estimate, perhaps as few as ten thousand outsiders moved into Britain in the century after the Romans left—an average of only one hundred people a year. Most historians think that is much too small a figure, though none can put a more certain number in its place. Nor, come to that, can anyone say how many native Britons were there to receive or oppose the invaders. The number is variously put at between 1.5 million and 5 million—in itself a vivid demonstration of just how comprehensively vague a period we are dealing with here—but what seems nearly certain is that the invaders were very considerably outnumbered by those they conquered.
Why the vanquished Britons couldn’t find the means or spirit to resist more effectively is a deep mystery. They were, after all, giving up a great deal. For almost four centuries they had been part of the mightiest civilization on Earth and had enjoyed benefits—running water, central heating, good communications, orderly governments, hot baths—with which their rough conquerors were uncomfortable or unacquainted. It is difficult to conceive the sense of indignity that the natives must have felt at finding themselves overrun by illiterate, unwashed pagans from the wooded fringes of Europe. Under the new regime they would give up nearly all their material advantages and not return to many of them for a thousand years.
This was a period of Völkerwanderung, “the wandering of peoples,” when groups all across the ancient world—Huns, Vandals, Goths, Visigoths, Ostrogoths, Magyars, Franks, Angles, Saxons, Danes, Alamanni, and more—developed a strange, seemingly unquenchable restlessness, and Britain’s invaders were clearly part of that. The only written account we have of what happened is that left by the monk known as the Venerable Bede, who was writing three centuries after the fact. It is Bede who tells us that the invading force was made up of Angles, Saxons, and Jutes, but who they were exactly and how they related