A river of lost souls: the extraordinary secrets of the Thames

If you spend enough time on the Thames, you will eventually come across human remains. It is a river of lost souls, filled with suicides, battles, burials, murders and accidents, with people so poor their families couldn’t afford to bury them, or so destitute they were never missed. Their bones wash up on the foreshore in the drifts of smooth, honey-brown animal bones, the remains of 2,000 years of dining and feasting.

I know this because I am a mudlark and I’ve found my fair share of lost and forgotten Londoners. Mudlarking is best described as a hobby for the archaeologically curious. Twice a day, the tidal Thames falls low enough to search the riverbed for the city’s lost and discarded objects. I let the river dictate what I find; I don’t dig or use a metal detector, I merely take what is left for me on the surface of the mud and caught among the shingle.