I am close to the point of looking back over my shoulder at my sixtieth year. If you remember, I celebrated ‘that’ birthday by encouraging friends to coax me out of my comfort zone and do something with them that they enjoyed but I had not experienced before.

I was spoilt with such an embarrassment of riches that I am considering a roll-over year for I may struggle to squeeze in all these invitations before December while holding down the day job. For the record, I have notched up cold water swimming, my first country concert, a park run, tree hugging and a trip to see Kenneth Branagh; I still need to find the time and confidence to engage in a Bollywood dance showcase and cooking, sailing and jewellery lessons before taking, a mystery/history tour around Bristol and take the wheel of a hovercraft. I am exhausted just thinking about it and also buzzing from the madness of it all.

One invitation was more difficult than others to arrange because not only was it diary-dependent, the activity was also ruled by the vagaries of Father Thames. Wait, I have now researched this properly and realise that in this instance my birthday activity was subject to the foibles of Mama Thames – her power comes from the seas and ports and apparently she holds court East of the Tower of London in a converted warehouse, just short of the Shadwell Basin, in the Wapping area of London, which is where our mudlarking adventure was to take place.

I accepted my good friend’s invitation to mudlark as soon as she mentioned it. I did not even need to hear why she had enjoyed her previous mudlarking experience so much, because just the sound of the verb or adjective ‘mudlarking’ filled me with great joy. I think I may have been drawn to the idea of ‘larking around’ in London or just remembered the ‘larks’ that Joe promised Pip in ‘Great Expectations’. My friend told me that the expedition involved standing on shingled river banks searching for treasure and I was more than happy to leave her to make the arrangements.

While my friend consulted tide times and navigated two busy social diaries, I used the time diligently (well, the time I had left warming up after that cold water swim and watching Youtube videos of Bollywood dance moves) and researched what I had committed to. I discovered that a mudlark was an 18th or 19th Century term given to a Londoner who scavenged the banks of the Thames to find items of value that could be sold on. I shared this information with Himself and he begged to tag on to my birthday invite, for he had visions of finding Spanish gold and paying off his credit card.

Half term saw us battling for seats on GWR to Paddington – we had foolishly ignored the dates for London Comi Con and Halloween when we booked our Wapping adventure for the first Saturday of half term. Although we failed to find anywhere to sit on the train, at least we were distracted by some interesting costumes and a lively and well-lubricated hen party travelling from Cardiff to the Smoke. No doubt Dickens would have used this material for a novel, but we were focused on meeting my chum at St Katherine’s dock and eating some vittles – perhaps enjoying some gin punch even – before rolling up our trousers and getting stuck into some foraging.

If I had researched mudlarking properly, or even listened to my chum’s previous ‘larks’, I would have realised that there is no need to take shoes off or even wear a pair of sensible wellies for this activity; you mudlark when the tide is low and you walk on dry shingle. Perfect. In truth, I wasn’t particularly fretting about appropriate scavanging kit, I was more impressed to discover that not only had my chum arranged this invite, and found us a hostelry to meet up in, but had also ensured that the Royal Barge ‘Gloriana’ was waiting at St Katherine’s dock to row us down to meet our fellow foragers in Wapping.

Correction, good friend was delighted to discover that ‘Gloriana’ was moored at St Katherine’s Dock but admitted this was a happenstance rather than a birthday surprise and that this golden barge would stay where she was when we pulled ourselves away from our repast and got back on with our mudlarking schedule. Thankfully lunch was excellent so I was distracted from any argy bargy birthday petulance and we arrived for our mudlarking briefing with happy stomachs and dry feet.

We behaved fairly well at our briefing. I know this because Favourite Daughter was enjoying her own rum punch with friends at an adjacent local inn and later sent me a video – filmed from the pubwindow – with the comment; ‘Well done mum, you only start fidgeting when one of the other mudlarkers starts to commandeer the attention of the expedition leader (an archaeologist) and monopolises the trays of previous mudlarking examples she is handing around’.

I can now report back on my main findings from the afternoon:

• I have the most excellent friend and we had ‘such larks’ on the bank of the Thames. Great birthday present.
• My friend and Himself are much more patient scavangers than I. I would like to thank them for sharing their best finds with me – mainly because I was the only one who had remembered to take a bag with me – so that I did not return empty handed to the ‘show and tell’ at the end of our mudlarking session.
• There are clay smoking pipes aplenty on the banks of the Thames – see below for fun facts explaining why.
• Clay pipes were intended for single use in the 17th Century – much like disposable vapes today. There were over 1000 clay pipe makers in London in this period.
• Linked to my new clay pip intel (hopefully useful to you in future pub quizzes) we discover that although tobacco became popular after its introduction in the 1600’s, King James 1 was some 400 years before his time; he may have failed to ban tobacco but he did hoik up tobacco tax by 4,000% and described tobacco as ‘lothsome to the eye, hatefull to the Nose, harmefull to the brains, daungerouse to the Lungs, and in the blacke stinking fume thereof, neerest resembling the horrible Stigian smoke of the pit that is bottomelesse’. Go James. No wonder so many Londoners threw their pipes in the river.
• Mudlarking is better than meditation. I defy anyone to feel vexed about life while sifting through the shingle for old glass, iron ware or leather goods.
• Himself was a little too smug for my liking after discovering an 18th leather hand-worked sole from a child’s shoe. He may have to plead more persuasively to join future birthday invites.
• Any mudlarking finds must be returned to the river banks. We will never be sure if my good friend spent the afternoon retrieving the clay pipes, china and glass that she discovered on her previous mudlarking experience.

My trip advisor comment for mudlarking is as follows:

‘A relaxing and insightful glimpse into the London of old. Would recommend this activity to anyone with two hours to spare – just check beforehand to see if there is a very needy middle-aged gentleman on the wait list (he will be wearing waders, a yellow sou’wester and sport an oversized scavenging bag which looks suspiciously as if it may have already been filled on previous expeditions. He will have latched himself onto the archaelogist (who should be noted for her grace and patience) ready to interrupt any other mudlarker who may dare to show their find or ask her a question).

PS. A screen capture of the above gentleman may be available in exchange for a piece of Spanish gold.