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By Chris Barber Journey to Avalon: The Final Discovery of King Arthur (New edition) [Paperback]
The authors sort fact from fiction to provide the most convincing and detailed account of King Arthur that has ever been compiled. This intriguing work of historical detection unlocks the solution to one of the greatest mysteries of the world. Readers will learn the true identity of Arthur, the sixth-century king of the Britons, as well as the locations of his courts and long-forgotten battle sites. Most importantly, the authors reveal the secret of the mysterious Isle of Avalon and Arthur's resting place in a Breton church. The authors examine key literary sources, and provide fascinating answers to questions that have baffled historians for centuries. This is a controversial book, for academic historians have tended to dismiss the possibility of any solution being achieved for the mystery of King Arthur. Barber and Pykitt present a convincing and conclusive answer to this riddle.
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First published January 1, 1993
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January 12, 2014
Many years ago F T Wainwright wrote an illuminating essay (Archaeology and Place-names and History: an essay on problems of co-ordination 1962) about the relationship between the disciplines of history, archaeology and place-name studies; and when I first read Barber and Pykitt's Arthurian theory I found it informative to use some of Wainwright's criteria by which to judge its success.
Journey to Avalon is a handsome book co-authored by David Pykitt (who provided the bulk of the text) and Chris Barber (who supplied the copious monochrome photographs and published the book under his own imprint Blorenge Books), filled with plentiful line illustrations -- mostly uncredited -- and attractive maps. There is an extensive bibliography, several appendices and generous acknowledgement of sources of information and general help (including from this reviewer). The main theme of the book is the identification of Arthur as not only a 7th-century Welshman, one Arthwys ap Meurig, but also the 6th-century Breton saint Armel. The result is nearly 200 pages of close-packed argument in which the authors present the conclusions of years of research.
However, when we come to examine the details of the their hypothesis (with its title deliberately contradicting Geoffrey Ashe's 1985 The Discovery of King Arthur) we find that the scaffolding surrounding their construct is decidedly rickety. In the absence of any absolute proof of Arthur's existence, the hierarchy of evidence -- so crucial to a scholarly presentation -- is ill-presented and often non-existent so that the whole edifice threatens to crash to the ground.
I leave it to others to deconstruct their genealogical tables (which in any case would take a book almost as long), though essentially the source material is rarely contemporary, liable to political manipulation, infrequently survives in complete form and remains full of contradictions -- so cannot be accepted at face value. No, what is easier, if rather more brutal, is to pick out at random some of the more obvious misconceptions which careful homework would have avoided. Pykitt's statement, for example, that "the Emperor Claudius received the submission of Arviragus at Cadbury Castle" (page 63) is historically unattested and sheer unfounded speculation (though you'd never guess it from the wording).
Another fancy occurs on the same page: Cair Celemion, one of a 9th-century list of twenty-eight 'cities' which the authors call Camelion "by changing letters around". They say that Celemion/Camelion is "surely" derived from Caer Melin (presumably by simply missing out letters this time), present-day Llanmelin, an Iron Age hillfort a mile from the old Roman town of Caerwent. Further, they argue that this is "certainly" more convincing than any other candidate for Camelot, even though they then acknowledge that Camelot is "an invention of French medieval poets". What is the purpose of this meaningless semantic juggling? If Camelot is imaginary it matters little that it could possibly be related to Llanmelin; and it's then irrelevant to any of their arguments that Llanmelin/Caer Melin might be remotely similar to a city on that 9th-century list. In any case, as Wainwright noted, "place-name evidence is essentially linguistic evidence and direct evidence only of language and speech habits"; it cannot prove, for example, that a post-Roman Arthur inhabited a hillfort in Gwent which has only produced archaeological evidence for Iron Age occupation.
Another instance of tangled logic occurs in a discussion (page 123) of Arthur's eleventh battle, as recorded in the 9th-century Historia Brittonum. The authors note a gloss in one manuscript on this battle called Mount Agned which reads in Somersetshire, quem nos Cath bregion ("in Somerset, a site which to us is Cat Bregion"). So far, so good. Clearly some later scribe, copying the name of the battle from an earlier manuscript, has interpreted it as being a site known to his contemporaries under another name. Now, Catbrain Hill, their favoured identification, is northwest of Bristol, now almost swamped by the retail park at Cribbs Causeway; unfortunately for the authors' purposes it was originally located in Gloucestershire, not Somerset.
Further, the original gloss was an attempt to locate the battle at one of the three hillforts in Somerset with the name Cadbury, and thus represented an antiquarian speculation and not a piece of ancient lore. To quote Wainwright again, "historical evidence is written evidence and direct evidence only of the state of mind of the person who composed it or dictated its composition." Finally, it is arguable that the second element of Catbrain Hill is cognate with a Brittonic or British Celtic word meaning "high place", but there is no known archaeological evidence or even folklore to suggest that there was a major Dark Age conflict at or on this insignificant Bristol hill.
The authors seem unaware of the irony involved in their description of "many an Arthurian sleuth" spending long hours "scanning old maps in search of anything remotely resembling this name" (that is, Agned or Cathbregion) when they then go on to confess to discovering the name Catbrain "on examining Ordnance Survey maps covering the old county of Somersetshire [sic]". Or a similar irony when, after Catbrain evolves in their text from being "a feasible location" to "probably the site of the battle of Cath Bregion", they proceed to castigate King Arthur: the True Story for overuse of the words "possible, probable, perhaps, may, might and could".
Now, some of the inadequacies of this work may be blamed fairly and squarely on poor proof-reading. The index in particular is disgracefully punctuated, and the most blatant visual gaffe is the virtual transposition of Léon and Finistère on the map of Brittany (page 144). Such lack of finish is irritating, but the mistakes of fact exampled above are, I'm sorry to say, compounded by the method adopted by the authors of marshalling their evidence.
Barber and Pykitt follow an older generation of historical writers who place narrative high in their order of priorities. There is nothing inherently wrong in this method, and the fly-on-the-wall approach can sometimes be tolerated for its dramatic effects if the essential facts are not in dispute. Sadly Journey to Avalon is not a scholarly work. Its annotation is patchy and hardly begins to justify the assumptions of the main text. The distinction between undisputed facts, logical extrapolations and creative reconstruction is frequently blurred, and usually unstated. The text, with its frequent internal repetitions, reads like a mass of notes sewn together patchwork-fashion. Interesting episodes, such as Henry VII's veneration of St Armel (which deserves study in its own right) are used unsuccessfully in an over-ambitious attempt to buttress their claims. On the other hand, they seem unaware of academic developments such as archaeologist Leslie Alcock's re-evaluation of his views on the possibility of Arthur as an historical figure.
To assemble the relevant evidence in each case and then to interpret it within its own proper sphere, that is as direct evidence, are operations that pose problems enough for any scholar. But they do not reach formidable proportions so long as the limits of direct inference are not exceeded... Greater problems of interpretation arise as soon as specialists advance outside the narrow confines of their own disciplines (Wainwright 92-3).
These are not arguments against any effort at synthesis; rather they are a warning that great care needs to be taken in steering a course in such difficult waters. I only slightly regret using one publication as a stick to beat another, but Journey to Avalon is, sadly, a prime example of the pitfalls of labouring in isolation. To change tack with metaphors, the journey to Avalon will always prove to be a difficult sail, whether or not the traveller actually reaches their chosen destination; and a first-rate crew is as important as the ballast. As it is, the authors' choices for Arthur's true identity -- Athrwys ap Meurig and Armel or Arthmael of Brittany -- follow in the wake as just so much flotsam and jetsam.
http://wp.me/p2oNj1-FR
Journey to Avalon is a handsome book co-authored by David Pykitt (who provided the bulk of the text) and Chris Barber (who supplied the copious monochrome photographs and published the book under his own imprint Blorenge Books), filled with plentiful line illustrations -- mostly uncredited -- and attractive maps. There is an extensive bibliography, several appendices and generous acknowledgement of sources of information and general help (including from this reviewer). The main theme of the book is the identification of Arthur as not only a 7th-century Welshman, one Arthwys ap Meurig, but also the 6th-century Breton saint Armel. The result is nearly 200 pages of close-packed argument in which the authors present the conclusions of years of research.
However, when we come to examine the details of the their hypothesis (with its title deliberately contradicting Geoffrey Ashe's 1985 The Discovery of King Arthur) we find that the scaffolding surrounding their construct is decidedly rickety. In the absence of any absolute proof of Arthur's existence, the hierarchy of evidence -- so crucial to a scholarly presentation -- is ill-presented and often non-existent so that the whole edifice threatens to crash to the ground.
I leave it to others to deconstruct their genealogical tables (which in any case would take a book almost as long), though essentially the source material is rarely contemporary, liable to political manipulation, infrequently survives in complete form and remains full of contradictions -- so cannot be accepted at face value. No, what is easier, if rather more brutal, is to pick out at random some of the more obvious misconceptions which careful homework would have avoided. Pykitt's statement, for example, that "the Emperor Claudius received the submission of Arviragus at Cadbury Castle" (page 63) is historically unattested and sheer unfounded speculation (though you'd never guess it from the wording).
Another fancy occurs on the same page: Cair Celemion, one of a 9th-century list of twenty-eight 'cities' which the authors call Camelion "by changing letters around". They say that Celemion/Camelion is "surely" derived from Caer Melin (presumably by simply missing out letters this time), present-day Llanmelin, an Iron Age hillfort a mile from the old Roman town of Caerwent. Further, they argue that this is "certainly" more convincing than any other candidate for Camelot, even though they then acknowledge that Camelot is "an invention of French medieval poets". What is the purpose of this meaningless semantic juggling? If Camelot is imaginary it matters little that it could possibly be related to Llanmelin; and it's then irrelevant to any of their arguments that Llanmelin/Caer Melin might be remotely similar to a city on that 9th-century list. In any case, as Wainwright noted, "place-name evidence is essentially linguistic evidence and direct evidence only of language and speech habits"; it cannot prove, for example, that a post-Roman Arthur inhabited a hillfort in Gwent which has only produced archaeological evidence for Iron Age occupation.
Another instance of tangled logic occurs in a discussion (page 123) of Arthur's eleventh battle, as recorded in the 9th-century Historia Brittonum. The authors note a gloss in one manuscript on this battle called Mount Agned which reads in Somersetshire, quem nos Cath bregion ("in Somerset, a site which to us is Cat Bregion"). So far, so good. Clearly some later scribe, copying the name of the battle from an earlier manuscript, has interpreted it as being a site known to his contemporaries under another name. Now, Catbrain Hill, their favoured identification, is northwest of Bristol, now almost swamped by the retail park at Cribbs Causeway; unfortunately for the authors' purposes it was originally located in Gloucestershire, not Somerset.
Further, the original gloss was an attempt to locate the battle at one of the three hillforts in Somerset with the name Cadbury, and thus represented an antiquarian speculation and not a piece of ancient lore. To quote Wainwright again, "historical evidence is written evidence and direct evidence only of the state of mind of the person who composed it or dictated its composition." Finally, it is arguable that the second element of Catbrain Hill is cognate with a Brittonic or British Celtic word meaning "high place", but there is no known archaeological evidence or even folklore to suggest that there was a major Dark Age conflict at or on this insignificant Bristol hill.
The authors seem unaware of the irony involved in their description of "many an Arthurian sleuth" spending long hours "scanning old maps in search of anything remotely resembling this name" (that is, Agned or Cathbregion) when they then go on to confess to discovering the name Catbrain "on examining Ordnance Survey maps covering the old county of Somersetshire [sic]". Or a similar irony when, after Catbrain evolves in their text from being "a feasible location" to "probably the site of the battle of Cath Bregion", they proceed to castigate King Arthur: the True Story for overuse of the words "possible, probable, perhaps, may, might and could".
Now, some of the inadequacies of this work may be blamed fairly and squarely on poor proof-reading. The index in particular is disgracefully punctuated, and the most blatant visual gaffe is the virtual transposition of Léon and Finistère on the map of Brittany (page 144). Such lack of finish is irritating, but the mistakes of fact exampled above are, I'm sorry to say, compounded by the method adopted by the authors of marshalling their evidence.
Barber and Pykitt follow an older generation of historical writers who place narrative high in their order of priorities. There is nothing inherently wrong in this method, and the fly-on-the-wall approach can sometimes be tolerated for its dramatic effects if the essential facts are not in dispute. Sadly Journey to Avalon is not a scholarly work. Its annotation is patchy and hardly begins to justify the assumptions of the main text. The distinction between undisputed facts, logical extrapolations and creative reconstruction is frequently blurred, and usually unstated. The text, with its frequent internal repetitions, reads like a mass of notes sewn together patchwork-fashion. Interesting episodes, such as Henry VII's veneration of St Armel (which deserves study in its own right) are used unsuccessfully in an over-ambitious attempt to buttress their claims. On the other hand, they seem unaware of academic developments such as archaeologist Leslie Alcock's re-evaluation of his views on the possibility of Arthur as an historical figure.
To assemble the relevant evidence in each case and then to interpret it within its own proper sphere, that is as direct evidence, are operations that pose problems enough for any scholar. But they do not reach formidable proportions so long as the limits of direct inference are not exceeded... Greater problems of interpretation arise as soon as specialists advance outside the narrow confines of their own disciplines (Wainwright 92-3).
These are not arguments against any effort at synthesis; rather they are a warning that great care needs to be taken in steering a course in such difficult waters. I only slightly regret using one publication as a stick to beat another, but Journey to Avalon is, sadly, a prime example of the pitfalls of labouring in isolation. To change tack with metaphors, the journey to Avalon will always prove to be a difficult sail, whether or not the traveller actually reaches their chosen destination; and a first-rate crew is as important as the ballast. As it is, the authors' choices for Arthur's true identity -- Athrwys ap Meurig and Armel or Arthmael of Brittany -- follow in the wake as just so much flotsam and jetsam.
http://wp.me/p2oNj1-FR
March 10, 2012
A good read, proposing a quite believable theory about the real identity of the legendary King Arthur. One criticism I have is about the style of the book - for a theory based on guesses, uncertain sources and on assumptions rather than 100% facts, the authors are pretty damn sure that the truth lies with them. Yes, they do go into detail on how they came to their realisations, but for every "Thus it is certain that this person was Arthur" there are several "Previous writers/researchers probably made the mistake of A and B" and "We can't say for sure, but it is most probable that X and Y".
For an un-academic eye like my own, the theory sounds good, it seems they did have a lot of info gathered on the topic and they knew what they were doing. But I can't shake the feeling, that their aggressive approach to other theories, especially in the Appendices, is some kind of defense mechanism.
For an un-academic eye like my own, the theory sounds good, it seems they did have a lot of info gathered on the topic and they knew what they were doing. But I can't shake the feeling, that their aggressive approach to other theories, especially in the Appendices, is some kind of defense mechanism.
April 10, 2013
This book annoyed me intensely :( It sets out to discover the real historical identity of King Arthur, which is all well and good and very interesting. The authors use historical records, diaries and poems to pinpoint Arthur, his courts and famous battles. However, what annoyed me was the attitude of the book. It was very condescending, arrogant and repititious, constantly asserting that the authors are the only ones to have got it right because...well, just because they are better! To my mind, whatever they want to write, it can only be a theory as there will never be definitive proof one way or the other, so what could have been an interesting discussion on historical facts, was spoilt for me by the constant intruding of the authors voice. Still, I did give it a rating of two, as the pictures are fantastic and the subject matter is quite interesting for anyone with an Arthur fixation.
February 6, 2012
I gave this Arthurian scenario an extra star for author-imagination. Evidently the only way to write one of these books is through pairing-up-- ie Wilson & Blackett, Littleton & Malcor, Frick & Frack... all of whom got one star less.
Oddly enough, or maybe not, Barber & Pykitts' candidate-- Arthwyr ap Mauric-- carried the Welsh nomen of "The Bear's grandson." That's what "Arthwyr" means. In this case, it might be more productive to elect his grandfather, Tewdrig ap Theithfallt, as the "final Arthur." The writing/spec-research teams of B & P, along with W & B, and L & M, were (or are) completely unaware that the original names of Tewdrig and his father were "Theodoric, son of Thiudebalth," which makes the best candidate for Arthur non other than a Goth. Heaven forbid! The Celtophiles are brandishing Excalibur at me!
Oddly enough, or maybe not, Barber & Pykitts' candidate-- Arthwyr ap Mauric-- carried the Welsh nomen of "The Bear's grandson." That's what "Arthwyr" means. In this case, it might be more productive to elect his grandfather, Tewdrig ap Theithfallt, as the "final Arthur." The writing/spec-research teams of B & P, along with W & B, and L & M, were (or are) completely unaware that the original names of Tewdrig and his father were "Theodoric, son of Thiudebalth," which makes the best candidate for Arthur non other than a Goth. Heaven forbid! The Celtophiles are brandishing Excalibur at me!
June 29, 2011
Very feasible, good sound argument, very likely King Arthur & King Meurig's son Arthur one & the same man but my interest started to wane at the end found it a bit repetitious in places. Skipped some of the Appendixes altogether, just briefly scanned them, repeating main text.
December 23, 2017
Inficiato da un grossolano errore in apertura, il libro mi è da subito sembrato inaccurato e superficiale. Nell'introduzione si parla dell'usurpatore Magno Massimo (Macsen Wledig in gallese) che avrebbe contribuito alla nascita della leggenda di Artù e si dice che fu ucciso nel 338 d.C. in un tentativo di minacciare Roma, nei pressi di L'Aquila. Mi sono detto che era arrivato proprio alle spalle dell'Urbe e dunque era una minaccia seria ma immediatamente ho pensato due cose. La prima è che L'Aquila è stata fondata nel medioevo e poi è un percorso molto strano quello fatto da Magno Massimo. Perché arrivare nel montagnoso Abruzzo quando esistevano molte strade più agevoli e pianeggianti? Vado a fare una verifica e capisco l'errore. Magno Massimo morì ad Aquileia nel 388 e non nel 338 a L'Aquila che dista più di 600 km dalla località friulana, che è molto più agevolmente raggiungibile essendo un corridoio ottimale per arrivare in Italia aggirando le Alpi.
Nel primo capitolo poi si parla nuovamente di Magno Massimo, sempre chiamato Magnus Maximus e correttamente lo si fa morire ad Aquileia nel 388, cinquanta anni dopo. Poi però in una nota si cita Gildas di Rhuys e il suo "De Excidio et conquestu Britanniae" e si nomina nuovamente L'Aquila, "perse la sua maledetta testa presso L'Aquila."
A questo punto voglio proprio capire dove nasce l'equivoco e cerco le fonti primarie.
Gildas scriveva in latino e dice: "apud aquileiam urbem capite nefando caeditur" mentre la traduzione inglese recita: "he lost his accursed head at Aquileia". Chiaramente entrambe le versioni dicono Aquileia che sia in italiano ed in inglese ha lo stesso nome, come succede anche con il capoluogo abruzzese, per cui non è colpa di un'omonimia in inglese.
Insomma "grande è la confusione sotto il cielo." ...
Nel primo capitolo poi si parla nuovamente di Magno Massimo, sempre chiamato Magnus Maximus e correttamente lo si fa morire ad Aquileia nel 388, cinquanta anni dopo. Poi però in una nota si cita Gildas di Rhuys e il suo "De Excidio et conquestu Britanniae" e si nomina nuovamente L'Aquila, "perse la sua maledetta testa presso L'Aquila."
A questo punto voglio proprio capire dove nasce l'equivoco e cerco le fonti primarie.
Gildas scriveva in latino e dice: "apud aquileiam urbem capite nefando caeditur" mentre la traduzione inglese recita: "he lost his accursed head at Aquileia". Chiaramente entrambe le versioni dicono Aquileia che sia in italiano ed in inglese ha lo stesso nome, come succede anche con il capoluogo abruzzese, per cui non è colpa di un'omonimia in inglese.
Insomma "grande è la confusione sotto il cielo." ...
January 13, 2014
Too many confusing assertions. Too many "w"s
Displaying 1 - 7 of 7 reviews