Found these stamped bricks in King’s Cross, London. They don’t appear to be medieval graffiti but rather Victorian brick manufacturers’ marks that were moulded into the bricks before firing.
I thought they were an interesting reminder that even ordinary building materials often carry the signatures of the people or companies that made them. Does anyone recognise the maker’s mark?
I’ve been reading Violet Pritchard’s English Medieval Graffiti (1967) and finally went to see some of it in person at St John the Baptist Church in Flitton.
After looking through her drawings and interpretations, it was striking to come across a carved figure of a person walking with two children in the church itself. Seeing it in situ felt completely different from reading about it — much more immediate and human.
Pritchard’s book really changes how you look at these marks once you start finding them in real spaces rather than on the page.
Still reading Violet Pritchard’s English Medieval Graffiti (1967) and came across something that made me stop.
She discusses the Solomon’s knot (also calling it the swastika pelta), the same motif that appears on the cover of the book, but never interprets it as a protective mark. Instead she explores possible visual origins and decorative traditions.
Reading it now feels fascinating because today we often encounter Solomon’s knot in discussions of medieval graffiti as an apotropaic (protective) symbol, sometimes interpreted as an “endless line” that traps or distracts evil.
From what I’ve been reading, that protective interpretation seems to have become much more influential only from the late 20th century onwards, through researchers of ritual protection marks such as Timothy Easton and later medieval graffiti surveys.
Not saying one interpretation cancels the other, but it’s interesting how much the way we read medieval graffiti has changed in only ~60 years.
I stumbled across this unusual graffiti, if I may call it that, last weekend inside All Saints Church in Shillington, Bedfordshire, and I’m curious what people think this deep perpendicular cut in the stone might actually be.
One possibility is that it’s a knife or tool sharpening groove. Medieval and early modern churches weren’t used the way we think of churches today. They were not just places of worship, but the centre of village life — people gathered there constantly for meetings, markets, legal matters, shelter, gossip, trade, waiting before services, and all sorts of everyday business.
Because of this, it wasn’t unusual for people to casually scratch graffiti into stone, carve gaming boards into benches, or even sharpen blades and tools on church walls and ledges. Farmers, shepherds, craftsmen, labourers, travellers, and even archers are all thought to have left sharpening marks in churches across England.
What makes this one interesting to me is how unusually deep and deliberate it looks compared to the surrounding graffiti. It doesn’t feel like a random scratch at all, but something repeatedly used over a long period of time.
On the other hand, churches are also full of ritual or apotropaic marks intended to ward off evil, so I wonder whether it could have had some symbolic meaning instead.
As another example, in the churchyard of St Clement’s in Leigh-on-Sea, Essex, the tomb of Mary Ellis — who supposedly died at the remarkable age of 119 — also features a “cutlass stone,” a groove said to have been made by sailors sharpening their cutlasses before heading out to sea. So sharpening grooves in and around churches definitely seem to have historical precedent.
Would love to hear what others think — practical sharpening groove, ritual mark, or something else entirely?
This medieval graffiti shows musical notation scratched into a church wall. The square-shaped notes are typical of medieval plainchant notation used in sacred music, and the word beneath may reference “solfège”, the early note-learning system that eventually became “do re mi.”
Medieval churches were filled with music every day. Choirboys and clergy had to memorise chants, learn notation, and perform long religious services, so historians think carvings like these may have been practice exercises, teaching tools, or memory aids hidden in plain sight.
Oddly, it reminded me of school. When I was younger, kids would secretly write important history dates on the classroom board before the teacher came back, just enough to remember the exact year during questioning.
Different century. Same human behaviour.
As I continue reading Violet Pritchard’s English Medieval Graffiti, one thing that keeps appearing is her mention of Mary Magdalene. At first I honestly thought it might just be one of her personal obsessions or recurring interpretations, but after reading more about it, it turns out Mary Magdalene’s imagery was genuinely extremely popular in medieval England.
Pritchard often suggests that graffiti of women alongside chalices, ointment jars, or certain jewellery motifs in churches could represent Mary Magdalene. Apparently there’s quite a lot of this imagery across English churches.
What’s interesting is that despite visiting hundreds of churches so far, I can’t say I’ve consciously noticed a single example myself yet. But much of the book currently focuses on churches around Luton and Milton Keynes, and I only visited two in that area yesterday for the first time — so maybe this is one of those things where, once you start recognising the symbols, you suddenly begin seeing them everywhere.
Any thoughts on this topic? Has anyone else come across possible Mary Magdalene graffiti or imagery in English churches?
“LB 1601” scratched into a medieval holy water stoup at St Pancras Church, Arlington.
The stoup was likely made unusable during the Reformation under Thomas Cromwell and Henry VIII. By the time this was carved, England was deep into the Elizabethan Protestant era.
Makes you wonder whether the person carving it still remembered the stoup as a sacred object, or merely as an old relic from another England.
Finally started reading English Medieval Graffiti by Violet Pritchard — a book I’d been meaning to buy and read for quite some time. And imagine, it was written back in 1967.
Already finding it fascinating, even where I don’t entirely agree with some of the conclusions. One thing she mentions is that a lot of the graffiti was likely made by “trained and practiced hands”, possibly the most educated people in a medieval community, such as priests or clerics. I can see the reasoning behind that, especially with more sophisticated carvings or inscriptions, but personally I suspect ordinary people probably left far more marks than we tend to assume.
Another interesting point is how difficult medieval graffiti can be to date because churches were rebuilt, altered, and reused over centuries, meaning carved stones were often moved from their original positions. That definitely makes sense, though I also think stylistic details — clothing, hairstyles, weapons, even the way figures are drawn — can sometimes help narrow down a period.
Has anyone else here read it?
Medieval scratched graffiti inside St Mary and St Peter’s Church.
The triangular symbol in the centre looks most likely to be a mason’s or merchant’s mark rather than decorative graffiti, simple geometric symbols like this are commonly found on medieval church fabric.
That said, viewed from a certain angle it almost resembles a tiny ship or sail motif, which made me pause given how often ships appear in medieval church graffiti across southern England.
It’s surrounded by layers of other scratched marks and symbols, probably added over centuries by different hands.
Interested to hear what others think: definite mason’s mark, accidental ship resemblance, or something else entirely?
Another piece of hidden Venice graffiti I found during my 2024 trip, this one scratched into a column beside one of the palazzi along the canal.
I posted some other Venetian graffiti before, but I keep noticing how the city is quietly covered in these little marks: figures, symbols, names and sketches carved into stone over centuries by people who passed through.
This one almost looks like a hooded silhouette if the light catches it the right way.
Historic scratched glass graffiti at Dorney Court — “Thomas Webb 1706”.
I rarely come across graffiti on glass, which somehow makes it feel much more intimate than carved stone graffiti. Unlike marks cut into church walls, scratched glass survives almost by accident, one broken pane and the history disappears forever.
In the 17th and 18th centuries, people sometimes used diamond rings or metal points to inscribe names into window glass in manor houses, inns, and historic buildings. Seeing a name and a date quietly surviving on a Tudor window for more than 300 years feels oddly personal.
Thomas Webb, 1706, still here.
A deeply carved “Z” on a wooden bench in the Great Hall at Petworth House.
Not the grandest example of historic graffiti, but perhaps that’s what makes it interesting.
A single initial, cut hard enough to survive generations of visitors, servants, guests, guides, and restorations.
This carved figure comes from what appears to be an unpublished photograph/poster shared by a fellow Redditor, showing medieval graffiti that has not been widely studied or published in academic sources. Because of that, interpretation remains open and speculative.
The image shows a crowned figure holding or associated with a bow, an interesting detail, since while archery was central to medieval warfare, kings themselves are more often depicted with swords or ceremonial symbols rather than bows. This combination of royal imagery and martial detail suggests a late medieval English context.
The style of the crown and clothing could point towards a ruler from the late 14th century, which leads some interpretations toward Richard II. During his reign, Richard II became a politically divisive figure, initially a legitimate and even admired king, but later overthrown by powerful nobles, imprisoned, and ultimately dying in captivity.
Because of this dramatic fall, it is possible (though not provable) that later informal carvings or graffiti might reflect how people remembered or reacted to him, whether with sympathy, criticism, or symbolic storytelling rather than strict portraiture.
However, medieval graffiti is rarely definitive. The figure could also represent a generic king, a knightly archetype, or even a symbolic depiction of authority rather than a specific monarch.
So the interpretation remains open.
What do you think this figure represents — and why might someone have chosen to carve or record a crowned figure like this in that space?