Mudlarking and River Gods

Today I went for a walk along the river and winking in the mud, out of my reach, were these beads and Buddhas, gold coloured bangles, pagoda ornaments, broken statues, and the Hindu symbol for Om.

The Colne is not a sacred river. At least not to most people. Although perhaps that has not always been true. The Roman sailed up the Colne to establish Camulodunum (Colchester) and built on its banks, the Temple of Claudius between 49 and 60 AD. I don’t know how much of a part the river played in the worship of Claudius, except to bring in stone and statues, yet it is not beyond belief that the Imperial Cultists who worshiped Claudius and deified him after his death, threw coins and icons into the river to show their gratitude for Roman Rule. Seneca names these worshipers barbarians while taking a swipe at Claudius for his grandiose desires to be deified, saying,

"Is it not enough that he has a temple in Britain, that savages worship him and pray to him as a god, so that they may find a fool to have mercy upon them?" (The Apocolocyntosis, VIII.3)

Boudicca too was sick of their imperialist shit and burnt the temple to the ground in AD 61.

For the most part, the Colne has no doubt simply been thanked for its usefulness. It rises at the delightfully named Steeple Bumpstead, then flows through Halstead, bringing fresh water. At Colchester, it becomes tidal, salty, and flows over thick mud before it reaches the Blackwater Estuary and ultimately the North Sea. Using its waters, long ships and skips and coracles and smacks have caught the incoming tide to reach new lands to conquer. Cod and whiting and herring and sprat have danced into nets. Oysters abound on beds laid for thousands of years. Boats and even submarines have been built on these shores. Sand and gravel have been loaded onto barges which wended their way to the Thames. It has turned mills, ground flour and rye.

And here, at Wivenhoe, near the end of its journey, it doesn’t know if it is land or sea or river or marsh. Now, the tide is coming in and the river is a wide ribbon running through an expanse of mud. On a bright day, the mud shines silver; today with a white sky, it’s a smooth deep brown like chocolate cake mix. Birds pad trefoil patterns on its skin and strange objects emerge.

And what of those objects? What are they doing here? At first, not quite seeing what they are, I think they have simply been dumped. A box of unwanted objects tossed over the railings. Was it in a rage, I think? A jilted lover tossing their ex’s stuff. But then, peering more closely, I see that each object has significance – the beads are not jewellery they are japa mala (prayer beads); the curly gold object is a symbol that represents the sacred sound and icon of Om, a symbol of oneness in Hinduism and other world religions. Now my image of a jilted lover is gone. Here, at twilight maybe, each night, a solemn person throws one more thing into the river, not out of rage but to ask for something or to give thanks. I don’t know what for, I don’t even want to guess. I could make a story but that would be to invade that stranger’s moment, their prayers.

I didn’t think I was superstitious but it seems as though I am. Even writing this and taking the photograph might be disrupting something, dispelling magic, taking away power. For though I don’t believe in river gods, or prayer, I know how objects hold meaning. How past and present and memory and hope exist in each tangible thing. How seeing a strange object glinting in the mud can spool thought and memory. And although those things were gifts to the river, it seems as though they are gifts to me too. But even if I could wade to pick them up, I wouldn’t want to. They belong in the mud, will soon sink into it. The world as we know it is dying but if it sustains us for long enough, for another millennia say, then one day a man or woman or child will dig into this mud and find these sacred objects. Brushing away dirt, they may think about the history of the Colne, the Romans, the Temple of Claudius, the mills and the gravel, and the ancient housing estate of 2000 that was once on these banks. We will be connected through time and space and through the statue of Buddha, grimy in the mud.