Boring History For Sleep By The Snoritorian
Oct 15, 2026 · 1 hr 39 min · 20 segments
The Grim Reality of a Night in a Medieval Brothel – You’d Not Last Till Dawn We are live on Spotify Listen here: https://open.spotify.com/show/0mfM0Csl7Ste2OUsWTD07j YouTube: / @Snoritorian…
You wake in a narrow lane behind the river wall, with cold April mud soaking into your shoes.
The air smells of tar, river water, horses, coal smoke, and something sharper and more animal that you cannot place.
Above the rooftops to the west rises a strange round wooden structure, open to the sky, from which comes the deep unmistakable growl of a large creature and the frantic barking of dogs.
Somebody near you laughs.
Baiting's on, he says.
Last week of it, if the king has his way.
Across the water, London looks very different from the city of a century ago.
The great monasteries that once crowded its skyline have been dissolved.
Their bells are silent, their lands sold, their buildings turned into houses, warehouses and stables.
Even here in Savoch, the old priory of St Mary Overy has been closed and its church handed to the parish under a new name, St Saviour's.
A few streets away, Suffolk Place, the grand house once owned by the king's friend Charles Brandon, now holds a royal mint, where coins are being struck in the king's name.
as you will discover those coins are not quite what they seem the lane leads you to the river front where a row of houses stands with their painted walls turned towards the thames by now some of their names are well known the bell the cross keys the castle the crane the swan the cardinal's hat your house to-night is the crane its sign a long-legged white bird so faded that it might equally be a heron a stork or a drunken goose at the door stands a tall broad-shouldered man in a leather jerkin with a cudgel at his belt and a bandaged ear he looks you up and down without any sign of interest and steps aside Beside him, chained to a ring in the wall, sits a huge brindled dog with a wide, scarred muzzle.
It is a bandog, the kind of heavy mastiff kept on a chain to guard houses and, in this neighbourhood, to face bears in the baiting ring.
It watches you with polite menace.
Inside, the hall is warm and busy, lit by tallow candles and a coal fire.
That detail tells you something.
London is burning more and more sea coal, shipped down the coast from Newcastle, because wood is growing expensive.
The smoke is thick and sulphurous and catches in your throat.
The floor is boarded, not strewn with rushes, though there are a few dried herbs scattered by the hearth.
There are benches, a long table, a painted cloth on one wall showing the story of the prodigal son, which somebody clearly found very funny, and, in the corner, a pair of men playing cards by candlelight.
The atmosphere is strange.
There is noise, laughter and drinking, as you would expect.
But there is also something else beneath it, an anxious, brittle energy, like a party in a house that is about to be sold.
Conversations stop and start.
People glance at the door.
You wake in a narrow lane behind the river wall, with cold April mud soaking into your shoes.
The air smells of tar, river water, horses, coal smoke, and something sharper and more animal that you cannot place.
Above the rooftops to the west rises a strange round wooden structure, open to the sky, from which comes the deep unmistakable growl of a large creature and the frantic barking of dogs.
Somebody near you laughs.
Baiting's on, he says.
Last week of it, if the king has his way.
Across the water, London looks very different from the city of a century ago.
The great monasteries that once crowded its skyline have been dissolved.
Their bells are silent, their lands sold, their buildings turned into houses, warehouses and stables.
Even here in Savoch, the old priory of St Mary Overy has been closed and its church handed to the parish under a new name, St Saviour's.
A few streets away, Suffolk Place, the grand house once owned by the king's friend Charles Brandon, now holds a royal mint, where coins are being struck in the king's name.
as you will discover those coins are not quite what they seem the lane leads you to the river front where a row of houses stands with their painted walls turned towards the thames by now some of their names are well known the bell the cross keys the castle the crane the swan the cardinal's hat your house to-night is the crane its sign a long-legged white bird so faded that it might equally be a heron a stork or a drunken goose at the door stands a tall broad-shouldered man in a leather jerkin with a cudgel at his belt and a bandaged ear he looks you up and down without any sign of interest and steps aside Beside him, chained to a ring in the wall, sits a huge brindled dog with a wide, scarred muzzle.
It is a bandog, the kind of heavy mastiff kept on a chain to guard houses and, in this neighbourhood, to face bears in the baiting ring.
It watches you with polite menace.
Inside, the hall is warm and busy, lit by tallow candles and a coal fire.
That detail tells you something.
London is burning more and more sea coal, shipped down the coast from Newcastle, because wood is growing expensive.
The smoke is thick and sulphurous and catches in your throat.
The floor is boarded, not strewn with rushes, though there are a few dried herbs scattered by the hearth.
There are benches, a long table, a painted cloth on one wall showing the story of the prodigal son, which somebody clearly found very funny, and, in the corner, a pair of men playing cards by candlelight.
The atmosphere is strange.
There is noise, laughter and drinking, as you would expect.
But there is also something else beneath it, an anxious, brittle energy, like a party in a house that is about to be sold.
Conversations stop and start.
People glance at the door.
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