Legend of the Bog

That's right.

Come on...

Oi!

Have a drink on me.

And a smoke while you're at it.

Get off!

Bitch!

Yeah.

Give me me boot back, you swamp slobber.

As I am sure you all know,

bog bodies are the naturally-mummified remains

of human beings, preserved in the mineral-rich waters of peat bogs.

They mostly come from the Bronze and Iron Age

around 2,000 years ago,

but cover a time span from prehistory

to present day.

They're found all over Northern Europe,

particularly Ireland and Denmark,

where this example was unearthed in 1953.

And here's another.

And another.

And another.

Let's move on to the real thing.

Even though our murder victim is 2,000 years old,

she can talk to us through forensic archaeology.

DNA analysis shows that she was local.

Stomach contents tell us that she had a rich diet,

and probably died in autumn when food was plentiful.

Did she suffer?

Well, yes, I'm afraid she did.

Bog bodies often show signs of ritual torture before death.

Why? What did she do?

Well, I'm just an archaeologist,

- Miss... - Reilly. Saiorse Reilly.

...so I can only speculate,

but I believe that some bog bodies

were sacrifices to fertility gods to ensure a good harvest.

- I think others were being punished. - For what?

Well, their crimes must have been the most serious sort.

Something that brought shame onto the tribe.

These bodies are often found

on the borders between ancient tribal kingdoms,

effectively a no man's land.

Why?

Well, it's just a theory,

but I think the ancient people saw the bog

as an evil place,

neither land nor water, but somewhere in between.

Neither the underworld nor the living world,

someone killed there might be trapped

body and soul for eternity.

Do you wanna take a closer look?

Anybody else?

Sorry about that, David.

Everybody, can we please show our appreciation

for Professor David Wallace?

Sorry. Will you excuse me, please?

Sorry if the bog body upset you.

I spend so much of my work and life surrounded by them

I forget how strange it is for most people.

Strange might be an understatement.

Maybe so. We all have to make a living somehow.

What do you do?

Normally I'm an assistant curator, but this week I'm a glorified chauffeur

- for some bigwig. - Who's that?

You.

We shouldn't be here.

No shit, Sherlock.

No, I mean we shouldn't be here. We should be miles away.

Relax. There's no reason anyone should suspect us.

If we'd left the B&B with two days paid for,

people would have thought we had something to hide. Play it smart.

What, like running out of petrol when we're trying not

to draw attention to ourselves?

- Where are you going? - Where does it look like?

To find gas. Gotta be a barn somewhere.

- What about me? - Whatever.

Jesus Christ!

Can't anyone in the goddamn world

do what they're told?

I said I need those contracts as soon as I get back.

Yeah, as soon as I sort out these losers.

Fine.

Look, missus, we can't go any farther.

This is a taxi, not a bulldozer. So do you want me to wait here?

Look, Darby O'Gill, what I will be wanting you to do

is turn your bloody meter off and sit here.

And then I will be wanting you to get me back

to civilization, okay?

Jeez, I was only asking, missus.

Jesus, imagine waking up to that sourpuss every morning.

Still and all, she has decent structure.

Yeah, with a gobbler that will strip paint from a tractor.

Bono, I want an excuse

why you dragged me out of Dublin.

And I wanna know why you're two weeks behind here.

These houses have to be up in a month.

Well now, Mrs. O'Leary, aren't the two things related?

Save your blarney for the pub. What's the story?

As I was saying, the reason why we're two weeks behind

is because the ground is so soft. We need to dig new drains,

or your nice new houses are gonna be up to your oxters in mud

- by the time we're finished. - And?

And as this being bogland and has been since the beginning of time,

a builder's apt to find worse things than mud.

Holy Mary Mother of God! Who is it?

It's what is it, you mean, missus.

It's a bog body.

That's right. He's one of those yokes in a museum,

a thousand years old.

Fine. He's adorable. Now what did you drag me down here for?

Before we ring the police...

Wait, no no no. You phone them,

the next thing you know the site's shut down

and we're swarming with cops and archaeologists with preservation orders

and journalists and assholes with metal detectors.

That's why you should have just gotten rid of it

and not told me about him in the first place.

Enough! Take your digger, dig.

Do something useful for once:

take it, dump it off the lot where it won't be dug up again

by the next asshole I hire.

Do it!

I told you I saw a roof in between the trees.

Yeah, well, I didn't see it.

Oh, my ankle!

Wiggle your toes.

- You feel that? - Yeah.

Okay, it's probably just a sprain.

Look, we're nearly at the trees.

Let's just go back. We can always spend the night in the car.

Not on that ankle, coz.

Anyway, I don't think I could find my way back...

not if it gets dark anyway.

Come on, we'll just keep going.

Look at this.

Will you just drive through them?

- Do you want me to kill them? - Fine. The meat here stinks.

Come on, just shoo 'em out of the way.

Look, missus, you ordered a taxi driver, not a bleeding cowboy.

Gilligan, if you think you're getting a tip, you can kiss its ass goodbye.

You can shove your tip, you old witch.

Look, I just wanna go back to Dublin, yeah?

That's the first smart thing you said today.

Look, missus, I'm sorry about that.

Here, have an old chew of that

and they might move on themselves.

400 calories. There's no way I'm eating carbs this week.

Look, Sancho, get back in the car.

Put it in reverse, find one of those roads we've passed

and let's get the hell out of here!

Fair enough, but if we get stuck in a bog, that meter's staying on.

Yeah yeah yeah, fine.

Hello!

Shagging immigrants. Hey!

Shag off back to where you come from.

Gaelic. Did you say "water"?

Did you say...

Hold your arm up.

To the right.

A bit more.

Lovely.

Don't archaeology professors normally have someone

to do this sort of thing for them?

Well, this is just a pet theory of mine

- I want to test before writing papers. - What is it?

The line we just measured between this tomb and the next

marks the tribal boundary between two Bronze Age kingdoms.

The Bog of Cennak runs right along the border.

So bogs are natural boundaries. Who wants to live in a bog?

Yeah, the point is if the two kingdoms wanted to bring people somewhere

to sacrifice them, punish them,

they wouldn't come to places like the lake,

big ceremonial places.

They'd go to smaller places, places where...

The heart of the bog.

Yeah, places like this were holy.

They wouldn't want to do their dirty work here.

If we can get into those Bronze Age minds and actually think of where

they did do the sacrifices, we can dig there, rather than waiting

for the next turf-cutting machine to spit out the next bog body.

It's getting late. Let's get back.

What's the rush? Why don't we find a nice little pub,

stop off for a bite to eat?

- I don't think so. - oh, right.

Strictly business.

Something like that.

Business it is then. On the way back, follow that lane

that runs along the edge of the bog. I'd like to take a closer look.

Unbelievable!

Oh shit!

I hate this, hate it!

Look, I told you, we should have stuck to the road.

Yeah, right, whatever.

Look, I'll go see can I find a farmer with a tractor,

pull us out of this mess. I'll be back soon, yeah?

Yeah, knock yourself out. I'm calling another cab.

Hello? Hello!

Oh, Jesus!

You can get a signal at the top of Mount Everest.