The notice on the door said “Time Team Office”. What were they doing here? Would I hear the Devonian
drawl of Phil from the muddy confines of his test pit? Run into Tony Robinson, charging from point to
point, illustrating physically some ancient distance?
Such thoughts disappeared as I entered the dark confines of the Administration Block, the tell-tale musk of
damp and rot pervading the air. The security guard emerged from his brightly lit office; a small black and
white portable TV, badly tuned, spewing noise into hall, the electric fire set too high.
I asked if we could look around the perimeter and take photos. He nodded, saying that we’d have to be off
the site by five thirty. I didn’t think the light would hold out that long.
So we started looking at our potential film set, anticlockwise.
