It’s at the bottom of the creek, partially covered in dark, slimy mud. Water passes over it, as it has done for many years, maybe a hundred. My breath quickens and I am consumed by the sight. I steady my balance on the wobbly rocks and reach into the cold shallows to retrieve it.
writer and photographer ERICA LARKE-EWING
She’s a beauty and I hold her with a straight arm to admire my find – a piece of earthenware, about the size of my hand. It’s thicker than most pieces I find, but the pattern holds no doubt it is a piece of the popular Blue Willow design that has featured on many plates since the 1700s.
I wash the piece off and call on my family who politely admire my find. “Yeah, that’s nice, mum”. They understand what the find means to me.
. . .
Hello, I’m a mud larker and I can’t help myself. It’s even in my family name.
“Mud lark” is a term usually reserved for people who search for historic treasures along the muddy shores of the UK, particularly around the Thames. In the UK, a permit is required for digging and prodding the boggy banks. YouTube videos show happy mud larkers discovering an amazing array of old clay pipes, coins, buttons and earthenware, sometimes hundreds of years old.
Other terms, such as beachcombing or fossicking come close, to describing my pastime. However, my interest lies in collecting older pieces and recycling much of the more modern glass I find. I don’t dig or use a metal detector; I believe that I will find what the ground has to offer me.
It is a casual addiction that drives me to walk for hours along beaches with my head focused on my steps, not wanting to miss a piece of glass or earthenware. By the end of my long jaunts, my neck aches from searching the shore.
It’s a harmless, endless pursuit.
As long as the Derwent River or our bays ebb and flow, remnants of our past will wash up and shards of Tasmanian history will be revealed. Many sailors, homes and businesses that lined historic Hobart used waterways as a dumping ground, and after years of tumbling in the water, pieces of our history are continuously returned to us – after every change of tide, after every storm.
And I am waiting.
It started as a game we played as a family, on a quiet Bruny Island beach, where we are fortunate enough to have a holiday home.
To burn energy and expel cabin fever, we took long rambles along the shore at low tide. It is not a beach of white sand and warm, inviting waters. It is rocky, muddy and sometimes pebbly, yet beautiful in its own right.
This is where the family game was invented. There were no rules – just prizes awarded as follows: third place to the person who finds a piece of thick black “convict glass”; second place to the person who finds a piece of beautiful purple glass; first place to the person who discovers the most coveted prize, a piece of earthenware.
Each winning piece is announced with pride to the other players to motivate them to get on with “the hunt.” I can’t think of when this game started. I think I made up the rules over many walks. However, my husband and children, who are highly competitive, were on task.
Once their interest waivered in the game, the children dispersed to their other favourite beach time pursuits: finding elephant slugs, sea urchins, crabs, green eels and the quest for the perfect skipping stone. But my passion did not fade. I would spend the entire time scanning the beach for the next hidden treasure.
What would the next patch of rocks and pebbles reveal to me? What about just a bit further towards the next bay?
My pockets bulge with prized findings and my neck aches from the constant downward position.
Back at the shack I carefully wash the day’s loot. I sort between glass that will be recycled and other special finds to keep. My soul is full and so are the jars holding my growing collection.
. . .
I was surprised to discover that not everyone shares my passion and excitement for my incredible, historical finds. My ever-growing collection of old medicine bottle pieces, beer bottles, jars, crockery and the occasional bottle stopper, marbles and florins did not thrill other family members who share our family holiday home.
I ignore the constant grumbles and unsubtle digs at my curious collections. I think they’re beautiful.
Perhaps I’m one of few people interested in it and no-one else shares the magical feeling of uncovering a partial bottle of Bonnington’s Irish Moss Cough and Cold Syrup lying amongst the pebbles or the thrill of unearthing a fully intact vintage Cascade Beer bottle from the weeds around our beautiful rivulet.
This brings me to the final chapter.
. . .
I’m not a historian, an archaeologist or a scientist. However, I am an artist. I have experimented with smaller collections to see if sea glass can be turned into other works of art.
I haven’t perfected anything yet. I look with admiration at the work of Tasmanian Artist Patrick Hall and I think that one day I will create a cabinet full of light and wonder that will display the hordes of historical glass and crockery, arranged appealingly, so that others too will suddenly “see” it the way I do and wonder at the stories that each piece holds.
Were they a part of the vibrant Wapping community? Did an olden times whaler drunkenly pitch you overboard? Whose home were you proudly displayed on the mantelpiece? Who dined with you each night? What is your story?
I don’t disturb the beach and I don’t use a shovel or a trowel. I don’t dig for my treasures – that’s not part of “the rules”. It just sits there, on the surface or half submerged in mud like my beautiful piece of Blue Willow.
I hold no secrets and I am happy to share my passion. If other people want to dabble in mud larking, then I’m here. You might see me, walking along beaches, head down, hat on, bag in hand.
As long as the Derwent River runs and the tides change, historic refuse will throw its mysteries back onto our shores. Happy Hobart mud larking.
Erica Larke-Ewing is an ugg boot-wearing, coffee-drinking mother of three. As a sixth-generation Tasmanian, she is passionate about exploring the plants, birds, geology, and history that shape our surroundings. When she’s not scratching around for remnants of the past, she is creating landscape paintings under the nom de plume “Kichikoo”, raising money for good and hunting for interesting rocks with her ever-patient husband. She lives in South Hobart with her family and a pug called Bernard.
