Atlas Obscura
Your Guide to the World's Hidden Wonders

Nov. 24 2015 12:30 PM

Michigan’s Thunder Bay National Marine Sanctuary

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Ever since the mid-19th century, the Thunder Bay region has been a heavily trafficked waterway, sitting as it does on shipping lanes that carry cargo between the upper and lower Great Lakes. And since well before that—as its name suggests—it has been home to capricious weather and treacherous shoals.

Various misfortunes have caused over 200 vessels to sink beneath the waves in and around Thunder Bay, nicknamed "Shipwreck Alley." Thanks to the resulting treasure trove of historic artifacts, the state of Michigan created a 290-square-mile underwater preserve in the area in 1981; this state preserve became a 448-square-mile national marine sanctuary in 2000. After being enlarged again to 4,300 square miles in 2014, it now encompasses essentially all of the waters from the shores of northeastern Michigan to the U.S./Canada border.


Almost 100 shipwrecks have been discovered and identified within Thunder Bay National Marine Sanctuary. The known wrecks range in date from 1849 to 1966 and represent a physical timeline of the development of Great Lakes maritime vessels, from wooden schooners and early steamboats to modern steel-hulled freighters. The cold, fresh water has kept this impressive historical cross section of watercraft extraordinarily well-preserved, with many wrecks exhibiting structural and mechanical components as well as sailors’ personal effects that have remained largely unchanged since coming to rest at the bottom of Lake Huron. Unfortunately, invasive species are causing deterioration heretofore unseen in the protected site, with zebra and quagga mussel colonization hindering ongoing archaeological documentation.

Visitors to Thunder Bay National Marine Sanctuary are afforded unrestricted access to explore the shipwrecks, whether via diving or snorkeling, canoeing or kayaking through partially submerged wrecks, or taking glass-bottom boat tours. Artifacts collected during archaeological visits can be seen at the nearby Great Lakes Maritime Heritage Center, as well as the Jesse Besser Museum. If you don’t happen to find yourself in northeastern Michigan, 3-D models have been created for seven of the wrecks, which can be explored online in warm, dry comfort.

Submitted by Atlas Obscura contributor Nehalennia.

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Nov. 23 2015 12:30 PM

The Elephant Buried Under the Vatican

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In February 1962, while digging up the Vatican's Belvedere Courtyard to modernize a heating and cooling system, a group of Italian workers hit bone. There was a large tooth and four pieces of a giant jawbone, and at first they thought they had found a dinosaur.

But the bones were not fossilized, and when the custodian of the Vatican Library collection had them examined, he learned that they belonged to a much more modern mammal—an elephant.


For decades, no one inquired further into the provenance of the elephant skeleton buried beneath the Vatican, until in the 1980s and ’90s, the Smithsonian's Historian Emeritus, Silvio Bedini, uncovered the elephant's history. He published the results of his research in 1997, in "The Pope's Elephant", the most thorough study to date of the elephant that lived in the Cortile del Belvedere.

His name was Annone—or, once anglicized, Hanno—and he belonged to Pope Leo X, who was elected pope in 1513. Hanno was not just a pet: He played a part in the politics of Portuguese expansion and made a cameo in the Protestant Reformation. But above all, Hanno was a wonder. No elephant had been in Italy since the Roman empire fell, and the entire country clamored to get a glimpse of him.

A woodcut of Hanno.

Image: Wikimedia Commons/Public Domain

Hanno the Elephant arrived in Italy in the winter of 1514, and on his slow march to Rome, he left a path of destruction in his wake. He wasn't such a large elephant (his shoulder reached about four feet tall), and he did not move very fast, especially on the hard Italian road, which hurt his feet. But wherever the elephant went, people wanted to see him, and they trampled fields, crashed in roofs, and tore through walls in order to get a glimpse.

Hanno had come from India, by way of Portugal. In the early 16th century, the Portuguese monarchy was expanding its reach throughout the world, trading with India and the East Indies, and consolidating control over the spice trade. As part of this commercial enterprise, the menagerie in Lisbon was filling with strange creatures from across the globe, and a decade before Hanno came to Italy, Portugal had sent a previous pope parrots, mandrils, leopards and a whole bunch of monkeys.

At the time that Giovanni di Lorenzo de'Medici (of the famous Florentine Medici family) became Pope Leo X, the Portuguese king, Manuel I, was working to solidify his country's hold on the spice trade. The Portuguese expansion over the oceans had threatened the monopoly that overland traders had held, and Egypt, which had long benefited from that monopoly, was pushing the Pope to pull back on Portugal. Egyptian leaders did have leverage: They controlled Jerusalem and could destroy Christian holy sites if the Pope sided against them.

It was traditional for Christian rulers to send a gift to a new pope upon his election, and Manuel I knew that this was a political opportunity, as well. He could ask for money, to expand his fleet of ships and artillery, and he could obtain the Pope's blessing for Portuguese expansionism. He carefully planned what he would send—textiles, a gold chalice, a brocade altar cover, and other treasures wrought with gold and jewels. He sent a cheetah, leopards, parrots, strange dogs, and a Persian horse. And he sent Hanno.

A later drawing of Hanno.

Image: Wikimedia Commons/Public Domain

Italians knew that elephants existed: Hannibal had famously crossed the Alps with war elephants, and Roman consuls had kept them in wealthier times. Every few hundred years or so, for the previous millennium, an elephant had appeared in some European court. But Hanno was the first to come to Italy in centuries, making him the ultimate must-see attraction across the empire.

On the 70-mile journey from the Port of Hercules to Rome, Bedini wrote, “the caravan that was following behind daily increased in size, supplemented by workers from the towns, peasants from the fields, and gentlemen from their villas. All were curious, avidly seeking a view of the great animals and the strangers speaking a strange language who accompanied it.” The elephant had to spend the night in a piazza so that curiosity seekers wouldn't storm the stable it was supposed to stay in, and all along the way, wealthy noblemen tried to convince the elephant's handlers to take a detour to their castles.

Hanno arrived in Rome just before he was scheduled to appear before the Pope. And in his first official appearance, he made an equally dramatic impression. Walking through the streets of Rome adorned with handsome vestment and with a silver tower on his back, Hanno dropped to his knees and bowed his head low upon reaching the Pope, before lifting back up to trumpet three times in the air. Then he sucked water into his trunk and sprayed water down on everyone assembled—including the Pope, who thought the whole of the elephant's performance delightful.

A portrait of Pope Leo X.

Image: Raphael/Wikimedia Commons/Public Domain

Sadly, though, Hanno's time in Rome was short. He was 4 years old when he arrived, and he lived to be 7. But immediately, he became a favorite of the pope, who wrote to King Manuel I:

It was the elephant which excited the greatest astonishment to the whole world, as much from the memories it evoked of the ancient past, for the arrival of similar beast was fairly frequent in the days of ancient Rome ... One is almost tempted to put faith in the assertion of the idolators who pretend that a certain affinity exists between these animals and mankind. The sight of this quadruped provides us with the greatest amusement and has become for our people an object of extraordinary wonder.

The pope built a special building to house the elephant, on the Courtile de Belvedere, and allowed the people of Rome to visit him each weekend. And on occasion, he was paraded through Rome.

Not that this generally went well. Once, the Pope had a famous poet dressed in Roman clothing, and perched on Hanno's back as part of a parade through the city. But the noise of the parade—the trumpets, the drums—made the elephant panic, and eventually, he threw his rider. Another time, a cannon spooked him, and he stampeded, injuring some of his fans. And at one viewing, the crowds were so tight that nobles on horseback ended up crushing less wealthy people to death.

A woodcut modeled after Durer's rhinoceros.

Image:Hans Burgkmair/Wikimedia Commons/Public Domain

Hanno almost had competition as the strangest and most wondrous animal to live in 16th-century Rome. In the winter of 1515, two years after he had sent Hanno to the pope, Manuel I decided to send another animal—a rhinoceros.

The rhinoceros, another gift from India, had been living in Lisbon, as part of the royal Portuguese menagerie. And in some ways, it was even more marvelous than the elephant. While the Portuguese fleet had brought back a few elephants from overseas, there was only one rhino—and when it had been pitted against an elephant in an arena, it had lowered its horn, made preparations to attack, and scared the elephant so badly that it had torn through an iron gate and run back to its stable.

In December, the Portuguese packed the rhino on a ship and sent it toward Rome. And while the rhino made a few appearances along its route, the ship sank before it could reach Rome. Rhinoceri can swim, but this one was shackled to the deck of the boat, and it drowned. Its carcass eventually washed ashore at Villefranche, on the French coast, and, undeterred, the Portuguese king ordered that it be stuffed, mounted, and sent on to Rome.

It's not clear, though, what happened to the rhinoceros. In his book, Bedini investigates rumors that the pope sent it to family in Florence and that it was kept in a museum there until relatively recently. But his research into the museum's papers did not turn up a record of the rhino carcass. Even at the time that the rhino was lost at sea, there were rumors that it was never sent; some people claimed to glimpse it in Portugal years after it was supposedly dead and on display.

Hanno's end was less mysterious, if similarly horrific.

In 1516, he started having trouble breathing and was clearly in pain. Doctors were called in, and they determined that the elephant was constipated. They put together a plan of treatment— a suppository with a high dose of gold, a common treatment at the time. It quickly killed him.

There was an element of mysticism to the elephant's death. Not long before, a Franciscan monk who traveled with 20,000 followers predicted the deaths of a number of Church leaders, up to and including the pope. He also prophesized the death of Hanno, and his keeper. The elephant died within the prescribed period; so did the keeper, although his death got much less attention.

The pope mourned Hanno, writing a paean to the dead elephant. When he commissioned a mural commemorating the animal, he insisted that it be drawn by the artist Raphael himself, not just his studio.

This affection didn't escape the attention of the papal satirists. "The subject formed the basis for one of the first published criticism leveled against him by German supporters of Martin Luther," Bedini writes. (Luther's 95 Theses would not appear until the following year.) And Pietro Aretino wrote The Last Will and Testament of the Elephant Hanno, a document that calls out particular people in the hierarchy of Rome. Just as the relics of saints were parceled out among the churches of Europe, Hanno detailed which cardinals should receive his body parts, including his skin, tusks, knees, tongue and, even, his penis.

But in reality, most of Hanno's body remained in the Vatican. His tusks were removed and stored elsewhere, but the rest of him was buried beneath the courtyard where he had lived—and where his bones still lay today.

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Nov. 20 2015 12:30 PM

The Canadian City of Lloydminster Is Actually Two in One

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"Where is Lloydminster?" is a harder question to answer than you'd think.

The short answer is that it's located in both Saskatchewan and Alberta. It is Canada’s sole “border city,” with the provincial border running through the centre, creating a unique living experience for its residents. They live in either Alberta or Saskatchewan, depending on their address, and pay taxes and medical fees accordingly.


The town was founded in 1903 by British immigrants, near the Fourth Meridian of the Dominion Survey. The founders sensed that provinces (which hardly existed at that point) were inevitable, but assumed that only one would form around their region. When the provinces of Alberta and Saskatchewan were created two years later, Lloydminster was halved into separate towns with separate municipalities. It wasn't until 1930 that the government agreed to fuse the two half-cities, and in 1994 a 100-foot survey marker was erected to commemorate the city's unique status.

Another unique feature of the city's placement is its timezones—Saskatchewan doesn't observe daylight savings time, unlike the rest of the country. In order to keep things even, Lloydminster, including the Saskatchewan side, remains on Alberta time.

Submitted by Atlas Obscura contributor samreeve.

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Nov. 19 2015 3:15 PM

Concrete Cartography: The Great Polish Map of Scotland

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Sitting just off to the side of Scotland's Black Barony, a hotel that was formerly known as Barony Castle, is what appears at first glance to be a field of low-lying boulders covered in lichen and moss, but this is in fact a small model of Scotland.

The Great Polish Map of Scotland, as it is known, may be the world's largest terrain relief map, but it all started as a gift from a grateful Polish soldier. Barony Castle, near the Scottish burgh of Eddleston, was requisitioned by the Polish army in World War II for training. Jan Tomasik, a Polish sergeant with the armored division, was stationed nearby helping to defend Scotland from the Germans. After WWII, Tomasik decided to remain in Scotland, reluctant to go home due to the new political regime in Poland. After the war, Barony Castle was turned into a hotel and in 1968, Tomasik actually purchased the castle and renovated it.


With a keen interest in topography, Tomasik wanted to build a scale map of Scotland on the grounds of the castle, as a thank you to the state that had become his new home. So he envisioned the Mapa Scotland, as the Great Polish Map of Scotland is also known. Construction began in 1974 and was completed in the summer of 1979. The map ended up being highly accurate despite its epic scale, measuring over 160 feet by over 130 feet, and ringed in by a squat wall. It also had running water in its rivers and lochs that was supplied by a system of pipes. 

Tomasik hoped the map would bring new visitors to the castle, including royalty. Sadly this was not the case, and after Tomasik’s death, the castle was again sold and the huge concrete map fell into obscurity and neglect. The water features dried up and the continents began to be lost beneath weeds and moss.

Finally, in 2010, a group was formed called "Mapa Scotland" to bring the colossal model back to life. They received a small  heritage grant and work began. Today, volunteers have gotten the map to a viewable state. While it no longer features the original painted colors or flowing rivers, the Great Polish Map of Scotland can still make visitors feel like Celtic gods.

Submitted by Atlas Obscura contributor stevied.

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Nov. 18 2015 12:30 PM

This New Jersey Bridge Has Something to Say

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The Lower Trenton Bridge, full name: Lower Trenton Toll Supported Bridge, is a rather mundane bridge save for the huge, and hugely catty-sounding, slogan on its side. 

More commonly known as the "Trenton Makes" Bridge, this bridge crosses the Delaware River to connect New Jersey and Pennsylvania, but despite its name, no toll is collected on the bridge. It is the southernmost free crossing of the Delaware River. When it opened to traffic in 1806, the bridge was the first to cross the Delaware, and it was made mostly of wood. The masonry of the substructure is original, and dates back to 1804. Before the bridge was even put in place, the Delaware had been crossed in this general location for many years. In fact, Washington's famous Crossing of the Delaware was also somewhere near there. The current bridge is 1,022 feet in length and is a five-span design from 1928. The bridge was the first bridge open to automobiles for interstate traffic.


In 1935, the words "TRENTON MAKES THE WORLD TAKES" (the Trenton slogan) were installed in big letters on the south-facing side of the bridge. The original slogan for Trenton was "The World Takes, Trenton Makes," thought up by S. Roy Heath in 1910. At the time the city adopted the slogan, Trenton was a major manufacturing center for china, rubber, wire rope, and cigars.

The message is clearly visible when riding the train between Philadelphia and New York City, letting the world know that old Trenton would like a little respect.

Submitted by Atlas Obscura contributor lex.

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Nov. 17 2015 12:30 PM

How Marshall Islanders Navigated the Sea Using Only Sticks and Shells

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If you live in a country consisting of over 1,100 islands spread across 750,000 square miles, how do you navigate the sea in between? Easy: with sticks and shells.

The stick charts of the Marshall Islands, in use since they were first inhabited in the 2nd century B.C., are simple-seeming navigational tools that look like little more than a bunch of twigs arranged into a loose lattice. They guide voyagers by depicting the waves and islands they are likely to encounter along the way. But unlike most maritime maps as we understand them today, the delicate stick charts were not brought on sea voyages. Instead, they were studied by the sailors prior to the trip. The directions and swells would be memorized by the mariners, who would then navigate without them.

Look out for that southern wave.

Photo (cropped): Jason Eppink/Flickr/Creative Commons


The use of Marshallese stick charts was not brought to popular modern attention until a missionary’s report in an 1862 edition of the Nautical Magazine. In the piece, American Protestant missionary Reverend L.H. Gulick described the island inhabitants creation of “rude” maps that described the location of other islands, nearby and afar, using stick formations to delineate wave patterns and oceanic activity.

While Gulick was correct about the charts describing wave activity, they were not made out of sticks per se. The charts were traditionally made from coconut fibers, the sturdy midsection of coconut tree fronds, and small shells like cowries. Gulick undoubtedly used navigational charts, sextants, and other complex Victorian tools of the day to reach the islands, but the rustic charts he discovered among the Marshall Islanders may have been just as complex, if not moreso.

The “stick charts,” as they are popularly known regardless of actual make-up, can be broken up into three distinct categories, all of which are dependent on swells, or dependable wave activity not caused by local winds but by the interaction of static currents and land which deforms the waves. To put it simply, the charts told people where to go based on reliable ocean movements instead of landmarks like on land. 

The first type of chart was known as a mattang. These charts were generally smaller and used mainly for instruction in the swell patterns of specific voyages or in how to read a specific swell. These were often more abstract and symbolic, made by specific sailors for personal use, making them a bit more esoteric to the outsider. In these, as in all stick charts, the lines could be straight or curved or intersecting to represent the motion of the waves.

The second type of chart was the medo chart, which generally showed the relative position of a small number of islands to one another and how their landmass’ swells presented and/or interacted. Unlike the mattang chart, the medo was more concerned with the concrete position of islands, although again the oceanic swells were used to aid in navigation.

Finally the most far-reaching type of stick chart was the rebbelib, which covered a much wider area, and a great many more islands. These charts, with their greater number of intersecting points often looked like a loose mesh of criss-crossing lines, dotted with shell markers. Some of these charts, which were not made to scale, could cover nearly the entirety of the Marshall Islands, which are spread over 750,000 square miles of the Pacific.

The stick charts, their language and craft dating back centuries, are impressive both for their complexity and their accuracy. While they can be interpreted by outsiders, they are all but unreadable from a practical standpoint by those who did not grow up on the Marshall Islands, sailing the waters between the little bits of land. Even among islanders, the skills of making and reading the charts were held among select members of each community who would lead large sailing parties.

According to a 2015 Smithsonian article, in 2005, a graduate student studying the stick charts was taken out to sea by a navigator from the Marshall Islands, who asked him if he could feel the subtle swells as they passed over them. The student could not. It is this understanding of oceanic activity as topography that makes reading the stick charts even more challenging.

After centuries of use among the indigenous people of the Marshall Islands, the creation and use of stick charts began to dwindle in the late 19th and early 20th centuries as more modern forms of navigation from sextants to GPS made their way to the islands. The decline of the tradition was also helped along by the stringent information control surrounding the traditional navigation techniques. Since the knowledge was limited to only a few members of each community, as they died, so did their unique understanding of the craft.

Navigation by stick chart may be a mostly forgotten art, but many of the delicate navigational tools have survived. The Science Museum at the University of Cambridge has a collection, as does the British Museum. Stateside, you can find stick charts at the Met in New York and the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, while, in the southern hemisphere, the National Library of Australia and New Zealand's Te Papa Museum both have them in their collections.

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Nov. 16 2015 12:30 PM

The Arrow Stork’s Sacrifice

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There are a number of ways a bird goes from being an anonymous fowl to a specimen celebrated for the ages. Unfortunately for the birds, it generally involves them dying first

Martha the last passenger pigeon became famous for a particularly sad reason. Once billions of passenger pigeons flew in giant flocks that darkened the sky over vast swathes of the U.S. But they were so easy to shoot down that by the turn of the century their numbers had declined precipitously. Martha died in captivity in 1914, as the last of her species. Martha's preserved remains, held at D.C.'s Museum of Natural History, now help educate the public about the nature of extinction.


G.I. Joe is one of a number of decorated war pigeons. Part of a unit called the Signal Pigeon Corps, Joe was a communication and reconnaissance pigeon, one of 54,000 war pigeons used in World War II. Joe managed to save the lives of thousands of troops by delivering a last-minute message to call off a bombing on a town the troops had just occupied. His taxidermied body is on display, standing at attention, in the U.S. Army Communications Electronics Museum.

Grip the Raven is perhaps the only bird famous for inspiring great poetry and even appearing in the works of two literary greats. Grip the Clever, Grip the Wicked, Grip the Knowing—these were some of the names that Dickens gave to his pet Raven. After making an appearance in the Dickens story "Barnaby Rudge," reviewed by a young critic by the name of Edgar Allan Poe, that critic became focused on the idea of a talking raven as a character. Poe's breakout poem, "The Raven," was written shortly thereafter. Grip was taxidermied after his death by Dickens and now resides in the Rare Book Collection of the Philadelphia public library. 

But none of the above birds, despite their great contributions, have made the kind of contribution or sacrifice that the Arrow Stork of Rostock made to natural history. 

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Nov. 13 2015 12:30 PM

The Double R Diner Has Returned

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The Double R Diner found an uncannily perfect setting in Twede’s Cafe—before it was Twede's Cafe, and before Twede's Cafe took a hiatus from being the Double R Diner.

Built in 1940, the restaurant that would become Twede’s Cafe opened to the public as Thompson’s Diner the following year. It was taken over a decade or so later by new owners, who changed the name to the Mar-T Cafe, installed the now-iconic exterior neon sign (hence the large “Mar-T” hovering unacknowledged above the Double R’s sign) but otherwise left both the building and the decor largely unchanged.


Thus, when shooting on the original Twin Peaks series began in 1989, the Mar-T Cafe was well equipped to serve as the noir Americana backdrop to romantic and investigatory intrigue in Lynch’s haunted mountain town. Its tobacco-brown wood paneling, horseshoe lunch counter, and chrome-and-vinyl stools appeared in the series pilot as well as the later prequel film Fire Walk With Me and served as the model for the Hollywood sound stage set where all other Double R Diner interior scenes were actually shot.

Once Twin Peaks hit the air, the Mar-T Cafe saw a major influx of business. Fans of the show flocked to the diner; pastry crews churned out pies in a vain attempt to keep up with demand; waitresses fielded nonstop requests for “damn fine coffee” with patience and grace. By the late 1990s, however, the mania had waned, and the restaurant was sold in 1998 to Kyle Twede (pronounced “tweetie”), who renamed it—you guessed it—Twede’s Cafe.

The newly rebranded FDR-era diner would be short-lived, however, as a fire gutted the Packard Mill— sorry, I mean Twede’s Cafe, in July 2000. The fire was the result of arson. News reports from the time of the incident described the perpetrators as burglars who had set the blaze to cover up their theft of $450. However, in an interview from May of this year, Kyle Twede described the arsonists as kids who had broken into the restaurant to mess around and drink wine coolers and then, fearing they would get in trouble for their actions, decided to set the place on fire (an apparent reference to a separate incident in 1997).

Whatever the case may be, the interior was completely destroyed. While the structure and the exterior neon sign remained, Twede’s Cafe reopened in 2001 with an updated interior that looked nothing like the Double R Diner. Since then, it has been proudly serving its Snoqualmie Valley patrons while also bitterly disappointing its Twin Peaks–minded visitors, journalist and civilian alike.

However, as of September of this year, the old Twede’s/Mar-T/Thompson’s Diner is back. As part of the production of the new season of Twin Peaks (and on the production company’s dime), the interior of Twede’s Cafe has been fully restored to the moody, campy diner of our fondest Lynchian memories. The restaurant will once again serve as the shooting location for the Double R Diner. The renovations are reportedly permanent and will stay in place after shooting wraps. So call a meeting of the Bookhouse Boys, or maybe just ask your estranged wife to help you get out of prison on work release: The Double R Diner has returned.

Submitted by Atlas Obscura contributor akornblatt.

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Nov. 12 2015 12:30 PM

A Weigh House for Witches in the Netherlands

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In the small Netherlands town of Oudewater there is an historic weigh house not unlike a number of similar buildings around the Netherlands, except this one is known primarily for weighing witches.

A weigh house was a common feature of medieval townships, used as a central site where people could come to weigh their crops and livestock. They were generally publicly run, used to levy tax amounts on goods as well. As witch hunts became a popular hysteria, they also became the perfect spots to subject the accused to a witchcraft test. Witches were thought to be light enough to float on water, and a common test of, uh, witchitude, was to put the accused on the weigh house scale and see the results. They were generally rigged and countless innocents burned or drowned thanks to the superstitious test.


The weigh house in Oudewater was a bit different, as it was said to have been approved as a fair weighing site by Holy Roman Emperor Charles V. Thanks to the this, no one is thought to have gone to the stake from its scales. They were originally built in 1482, and the witch weights didn't begin being tabulated until the 16th century.

Today the weigh house is a museum devoted to the site's history. Known as the Museum de Heksenwaag, visitors can come and weigh themselves, receiving certificates that prove they are not witches. If only so many of history's weigh houses could have had such fun programs. 

Submitted by Atlas Obscura contributor brickhound.

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Nov. 11 2015 12:30 PM

Guédelon Castle in France: An Archaeological Experiment

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In a remote forest clearing in Burgundy, France, a 13th-century castle is slowly being constructed using only the tools, techniques, and materials that would have been available to the builders of the day. It's archaeology in reverse.

The Guédelon project was started in 1997 at this location, which was chosen because it was near an abandoned stone quarry, a pond for water, and in a forest that could provide wood. The whole exercise is an experimental archaeology endeavor that seeks to discover what it would have been like to create a castle centuries ago, not by making guesses from artifacts from the past, but by experiencing it in real time. Knotted rope is used to make measurements, stone is imperfectly cut to denote the station of the castle's owner, and rock is chiseled by hand.


There is even a period-accurate back story attached to the project that informs the design and construction. According to the story, the castle (actually a chateau, although to modern eyes it could certainly be described as a castle) is being built by Guilbert Courtenay, aka Guilbert de Guédelon, a low-level noble who is constructing the new home in order to advertise his wealth and station. The elaborate back story, which was specifically started in a fictional 1229, helps the creators speculate as to exactly what type of amenities the space might have.

The project is ongoing and is expected to be completed in 2020. It can be visited and is, by around 300,000 people a year. Not only are many of the members of the project in period dress, but there is also a medieval restaurant to eat at. It may seem a bit kitschy on the surface, but their methods are pretty hardcore.   

Submitted by Atlas Obscura contributor jlanam.

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