Exeter Audio Tour: A Journey Through History and Heritage

Welcome to Isca Dumnoniorum—Exeter’s Roman secret with a name that’s a bit of a tongue-twister! Imagine standing here almost two thousand years ago. There’s the scent of woodsmoke in the air, and you hear soldiers shouting and hammers hitting timber as the Romans build their massive fortress. Romans built their mighty fort right here around AD 55, where their legion—about 5,000 strong—camped out while planning their next adventures (and maybe thinking about their next meal). This wall you see marked the edge of their world. Around them, the town began to buzz with traders, families, and children running after each other—maybe even sneaking glances at the fierce Roman soldiers. Now, here’s a fishy fact—The name ‘Isca’ comes from the river that flows nearby, and it means “full of fish”! Picture the river Exe bubbling along, packed with silver fish, while Romans haul their catches back to the fort. Sometimes I wonder if the local cats ever tried to sneak in for a midnight snack...

Alright, let’s take you back in time. Imagine Exeter before all the pizza shops, back when the only “delivery” you got was a loaf of bread from the monks—if you were lucky. This city has had monasteries since the 7th century. Picture monks in long robes shuffling by, chanting softly as a cool breeze sweeps through the ancient Roman streets. Right here stood the very first monasteries, on top of even older Roman bathhouses. Now, these weren’t just your average quiet monks. Vikings kept popping by—uninvited—so these poor monks had to keep rebuilding the place. It became a bit of a cycle: build, pray, and hope you don’t see a longboat! There’s a funny twist though: every time the invaders forced the monks to flee, some determined king—like Æthelstan, Edgar, or even the legendary Canute—would say, “No worries boys, let’s put it back!” As you stand here, imagine the clang of builders’ hammers mixing with the low hum of prayer as a new king tried to outdo the last one. In the tenth century, life got busier—over a thousand people lived around this area. Kids ran across the minster yard, and the name “Monkton” stuck, because frankly, there were monks everywhere you looked. But the most mysterious part is all the layers beneath your feet. Archaeologists found ancient church foundations when digging here, right under a more modern church. It’s as if Exeter couldn’t stop stacking churches on top of monasteries on top of Roman spas. Eventually, all the bits and pieces—nunneries, priories, Benedictine and Augustinian houses—merged into one grand cathedral. And here you are, standing where centuries of prayers, invasions, and royal do-overs have created a place full of echoes and secrets.

Imagine stepping into the past, back to the 1760s, when the sound of footsteps on cobblestone echoed through narrow Exeter alleys . Right in front of you stands Exeter Synagogue: the third oldest synagogue in all of the United Kingdom. Picture the inside: a warm wooden space, light flickering as if by candle, with a grand, marble-like Torah ark at the front (though, here’s a secret—it’s actually carved wood pretending to be marble, a classic bit of 18th-century trickery). This synagogue has stood through everything. It started as a place for Dutch-Jewish traders, then took in families from Germany as the centuries rolled on. Its walls have heard prayers sung for kings, for peace, and even for missing loved ones during the chaos of war. Back in the day, the community faced heartbreak and drama—one scandal even involved a teacher, a nephew, and a shocking conversion to Christianity! It was the talk of the town, and, honestly, Exeter’s episode of “Family Feud” never got this juicy. Now, imagine 1764, the day of the big consecration. Abraham Ezekiel and Kitty Jacobs made sure the Torah was carried seven times around the bimah , the air full of tradition and excitement. The story of Exeter's Jews is one of resilience; they kept coming back, no matter what happened. The synagogue survived bombings in World War II, neglect, and even, recently, a shocking arson attack. But here it is—steadfast and proud.

Now, as you stand in front of the memorial, imagine a scene just after the First World War. The people of Devon were trying to figure out how best to remember those who never came home. At first, they thought about adding a beautiful cloister to the cathedral, or maybe a grand new hospital wing—but money was tight, and ideas were plenty. It was a time of debate, hope, and even a few grumbles—some argued that every penny should care for living veterans instead, not carved stone! Stepping in to end the squabble was Sir Edwin Lutyens, one of the most creative architects England had to offer. Lutyens didn’t want fancy frills—he went for strength and simplicity, designing this bold granite cross. He chose Haytor granite from Dartmoor, making it as sturdy as the hills themselves. Just picture giant chunks of stone being heaved out of the earth, rumbled along country roads, and chiselled into this monument right in front of you. On 16 May 1921, the Prince of Wales himself came here to unveil the memorial. The crowd was hushed, the atmosphere heavy with pride and loss. Lutyens became famous for memorials like this all across Britain—he even designed The Cenotaph in London, where the nation still gathers to remember. But here in Exeter, somehow, the committees of city and county never coordinated, so the city’s memorial ended up elsewhere in Northernhay Gardens. It turns out even in matters of remembrance, people can be just as stubborn as ever!

Now, imagine yourself back in the 1200s—no phones, no shopping bags, just the echoes of footsteps on ancient stone and the smell of candles drifting through the air. St Pancras feels like a survivor from a lost world. The font inside, where people have been baptised for nearly a thousand years, is even older than the church itself. And some folks say the site is the oldest place of Christian worship in all of Exeter. Nobody really knows when St Pancras first appeared, but its name hints at an Anglo-Saxon beginning. There used to be a Saxon-style arch, replaced long ago—no fancy carvings now, just plain, worn stone holding centuries of secrets. Through the years, this little church has faced ups and downs: it was abandoned and reopened, remade and rescued, even almost closed forever by the Bishop. But St Pancras proved to be stubborn, sticking around while shops and cafés popped up all around. Here’s a strange picture for you: in the 1930s, a house was built right up against the church, squashing a window out of sight! It wasn’t until the shopping centre was built that daylight finally returned. If you peek in the east window, the stained glass might catch your eye—it shows St Pancras of Rome, the Crucifixion and St Boniface, bright colours glowing on a sunny day. Oh, and one of the church’s prized possessions, a Jacobean pulpit, arrived when another church was demolished. Talk about hand-me-downs!

Now, let’s step into the story. Cast your mind back to the 1800s: imagine a bustling week, horse hooves echoing on cobbles, and workers scrambling to put the finishing touches on this grand museum. . This mammoth building was born from a big idea: let’s pile every bit of Exeter’s curiosity and creativity into one magical place! Local MP Richard Sommers Gard donated the land, and a design competition whipped up the most dramatic blueprints. The winner, John Hayward, wanted to plop a huge tower on top, but the city said, “Let’s keep things a *tiny* bit less Hogwarts,” so we’re left with the gables and the beautiful rose window instead. When the RAMM opened in 1868, it was Exeter's ultimate adventure room. There were paintings, old bones, glittering stones, and yes—a library, a reading room, a school of art and engineering, all under one Gothic roof. Sometimes it seems like the only thing that DIDN’T end up inside were the city’s sheep! Over the decades, RAMM grew and expanded. It became the launchpad for much of Exeter’s cultural life. The city’s university, the library, even the college of art—yep, they all had their roots here! Just imagine the sound of delighted visitors over the years, the gasps when they first saw a shimmering fossil or an ancient artifact dug from the ground . With millions of objects (everything from ancient Roman coins to mysterious sea stars in jars), there’s always something to ignite your curiosity. RAMM nearly burst at the seams more than once, leading to bigger and grander rooms. The latest transformation finished in 2011: an epic four-year, £24 million makeover that washed away the dust and made room for even wilder exhibits. Today you can explore creatures old and new, wander through the art galleries, or even meet Percy Sladen’s sea stars—considered the best echinoderm collection this side of any national museum. Best of all, RAMM’s collections are now open access—they want the world to know that Exeter’s stories are for everyone. So, if you ever wanted to discover ancient treasures, marvel at natural wonders, or see art up close—all you have to do is step inside.

Alright, step into Northernhay Gardens and imagine yourself strolling through centuries of Exeter’s past. Can you believe you’re standing in England’s oldest public park? It all started back in 1612 when Exeter’s residents needed a little more fresh air and a little less city noise. This was their peaceful escape—except, of course, during the Civil War, when things got a bit dramatic and soldiers dug ditches where your feet are now. But look around—these gardens have more history than most novels. The stones underfoot were first ripped from the ground by Romans to build the city walls, and if you look along the edge, you’ll spot the last bit of Saxon town wall in all of England. That’s not just a wall, that’s a piece of one-thousand-year-old mystery! As the years ticked by, the gardens got flattened by war, replanted by townsfolk, and even dressed up with statues of Exeter’s Victorian heroes. The Deer Stalker here, he’s just waiting for someone to ask for directions—or maybe a selfie. There’s John Dinham nearby, ready with his philanthropic pose, and Sir Thomas Dyke Acland, keeping an eye on the city. Oh, and don’t trip over the ghosts of the hundreds of elms that once lined the avenue—Dutch Elm Disease got them in the 1900s but the gardens keep blooming, bright with flowers all year.

Here you are, just as Exeter’s townsfolk would have stood in 1923, maybe clutching their coats against a stubborn Devon breeze and listening to the echo of a single bugle drifting over the park. This is the heart of Exeter’s remembrance. The monument, designed by John Angel and paid for by the people, isn’t just a block of stone and metal—it’s a time capsule. The figure at the top, sometimes called Peace, sometimes Victory, is 8 feet tall, standing triumphantly over a squashed dragon (yes, a real dragon—well, a bronze one, anyway). You have to admire the drama. If you walk around, notice how every angle tells its own story. The bronze figures aren’t just random—they’re all roles from the war: the grit of a soldier, the strength of a sailor, the struggle of a prisoner, and the compassion of a nurse. John Angel wanted everyone to see themselves here: their courage, their pain, and their hope for peace. During World War II, the city built a tall brick wall around the memorial to guard it from bombs—leaving only the top raised hand visible, like a beacon of hope peeking over danger. After the war, more names were quietly added, as if the city itself was still remembering, still grieving. There’s a touch of drama behind the scenes too: the city and county couldn’t quite agree on how to do this, so they built two separate memorials—sometimes, even in peace, people can’t help a bit of rivalry. And if you listen carefully, you might almost hear the hush of a crowd, the voice of a bishop, and the clear, lingering note of The Last Post played from Athelstan’s Tower, sending out a promise: this memory will not fade. In 2012, a new memorial joined the old, quietly listing Exeter’s more recent losses—Afghanistan, Iraq, Northern Ireland—reminding us that the story doesn’t end.

Now, as you stand here, imagine stepping back in time. These tranquil gardens weren’t always the calm retreat you see today. In fact, if you were here nearly a thousand years ago, you’d be standing in the thick of Exeter’s defences—a place of tension and drama, when William the Conqueror ordered the building of Rougemont Castle. This wide, deep ditch that now cradles joggers and picnickers? Picture it bristling with stakes, ready to keep out invaders. Some say the ditch is so wide because it was once a Roman quarry; who would’ve guessed that stone used to build ancient city walls would later be the bones of a beautiful garden? By the late 1700s, the story shifts from conquest to calm. A local surgeon named John Patch—who clearly liked his peace and quiet—built Rougemont House just below the gatehouse and planted the very gardens you see today. As new residents moved in and out, they added trees and flowers, and by Victorian times, people called it “a perfect sylvan retreat.” Let’s be honest, that just means it was downright lovely—a secret green pocket in the middle of the city. For decades, if you listened carefully in the summer, you could hear applause echoing off the stone walls as actors performed Shakespeare, using the ancient defences as their stage. You can almost hear the rustle of audience members settling on the grass, the thrill of a sword fight, and the ring of laughter floating into the night. Today, Rougemont Gardens has swapped swords for sunbathers and battlements for birdsong, but the excitement and stories are still here, hidden beneath your feet. And the best part? If you’re feeling dramatic, you can always perform a line or two for the squirrels—they’re a tough crowd, though, so make it good!

Now, let’s imagine you’re standing here almost a thousand years ago. Rougemont Castle, or Exeter Castle, is looming above you, its red stone glowing in the sun—yes, that color comes from the earth itself, dug right from under Exeter! It was built in a hurry after Exeter tried to stand up to William the Conqueror in 1068. William wasn’t exactly in a good mood after the city said no to extra taxes, so once he won the siege, he made sure this fortress would watch over Exeter for good. Listen as the wind whistles through the ancient arches above you. Back in the day, this castle was a serious stronghold, with its thick walls and a deep ditch outside, just to make sure you really wanted to pay a visit! King Stephen even tried to take it down with a three-month siege in 1136—but the castle didn’t budge. Now, take a look at the gatehouse in front of you. Those funny windows and blocky corners? They’re a mix of Anglo-Saxon and early Norman design, built by English masons right under the watchful eyes of their new conquerors. There’s even a legend that some of these stones show early repair marks from an attack while it was still unfinished—talk about a rough start! And here’s a fun fact: Shakespeare himself mentions Rougemont Castle in Richard III, so you’re standing in the middle of both real drama and stage drama. Just beware of witches—they were once tried here in the days when people still believed magic could be deadly. Today, you’ll sometimes hear laughter and music where once you’d have heard the clanging of swords and marching boots. The castle’s been everything from a court to a party venue, and it’s aiming to become the Covent Garden of the Southwest. Not too shabby for an old Norman stronghold! Soak in the atmosphere—imagine knights, rebels, judges, and maybe even a ghost or two, all crowding these old red walls.

Now, let’s step back to 22 May 2008 – a sunny, ordinary day in Exeter, when lunchtime at the Giraffe café turned unforgettable. Picture yourself here, perhaps just popping in for a coffee, when suddenly——the calm is shattered by an explosion from the café toilets. At first, most people shrug it off, blaming nearby construction, but there’s a ripple of unease. Some say it sounded more like a series of pops, or even a lightbulb blowing. Moments later, the police and ambulance services rush to the scene. They quickly realise this is no drill. The restaurant is evacuated, and the usually busy Princesshay shopping area is transformed into a scene straight out of a TV crime drama; the police stretch a cordon across the whole city centre. Buses are diverted. Shoppers are herded out, wondering what on earth has just happened to their day. Inside, all eyes are on one man: Nicky Reilly. He’s rushed to hospital—astonishingly, the only one injured, as the home-made device explodes before he ever leaves the toilet. Meanwhile, bomb disposal teams sweep the area and find another device, which, thankfully, is made safe. For hours, the city’s heart beats with tension as roads close and the streets stand strangely silent. People peek behind curtains, business owners wring their hands, police dogs sniff their way through the scene. After six hours, the cordon begins to lift and, slowly, Exeter starts to come back to life. The only evidence of the chaos is a lingering memory, and maybe a story or two for the next coffee break.

Welcome to the grand finale of our Exeter journey! Imagine yourself here more than 100 years ago. The year is somewhere near the end of the 19th century, and this beautiful hall was buzzing with the chatter of scholars from the Exeter Literary Society. Maybe you can still hear a faint whisper of old debates floating on the breeze. Hop forward to 1972, and Barnfield Hall takes a dramatic turn—literally! The building became the Barnfield Theatre. Since then, laughter, applause, and the occasional over-the-top stage whisper have echoed off these brick walls. Today, you’re standing before a place that welcomes everyone from local drama clubs to professional theatre troupes. Step inside (don’t worry, there are 280 comfy seats with a perfect view—no need to fight for the best spot). If you wander into the Clifford Room, you’ll find a magical space that can transform as quickly as a quick-change artist backstage—studio, conference, theatre-in-the-round, you name it! Now, imagine the buzz as the foyer got its makeover in 2015, and then again in 2022 when the Northcott Theatre took over. A little fresh paint, a dash of history, and a dollop of anticipation—just the sort of place where stories come to life, and you never quite know what's going to happen next. So take a moment to soak in the atmosphere. Who knows, maybe the echoes of Victorian voices and the cheers from a modern panto will blend together to make your own theatre magic here. And if you hear a distant round of applause, don’t worry—it’s probably just the walls, clapping for every show they've ever hosted!