From Rebecca Reynolds. (2016) The Social Complexities of Early Marine Fish Consumption: New Evidence from Southeast England, in Cod and Herring: The Archaeology and History of Medieval Sea Fishing. Oxbow Books
The presence of fish on monastic sites, such as Lyminge, has often been explained by the Rule of St Benedict, which forbids the consumption of the flesh of quadrupeds except by the sick or elderly. Monastic settlements of later periods in Flanders do show higher amounts of fish and avian remains (Ervynck 1997), and in England such settlements are also characterised by a preference for flatfish (Dobney et al. 2007, 231–3). The Rule was written in the sixth century, but assessing its influence on fish consumption in Anglo- Saxon England is problematic (Frantzen 2014, 232–45). Most scholars agree that the period after the conversion of England (following the arrival of St Augustine in ad 597) was characterised by what is known as a regula mixta, where practices were guided by the abbot or by the secular rulers who had established the religious house (Blair 2005; Foot 2006; Mayr-Harting 1976). However, after the religious reforms of the later tenth century (Gem 1997, 12), fish remains do increase in numbers on such monastic sites as Westminster Abbey (Locker 1997).
So if the monastery followed the rule of Saint Benedict , these rents would feed the monks and their guests. (Though its likely that many outside the abbey followed the same rule out of economic necessity).
Wait, so a village was providing 164 eels a day as rent? How did the local waterways remains stocked with eels? If this was all in-kind taxes, then these eels weren’t the result of trade with other areas, they all had to be local produce. So how on Earth was this all sustainable? For eels to be so commonly used this way, all the waterways of England must have consisted largely of eels.
What’s really out there is the references to “eels up inside ya” is an oblique reference to the common Medieval practice of sticking live eels up the rear ends of lethargic livestock to make them seem more energetic during sales.
Ramsey is in the Fens, the whole area was one big waterway at the time. Some of it is still below sea level, and there are impressive floods every now and then:
The clan to which I belong used to pay an annual rent of one white calf and a snowball to the owners of the lands on which they lived.
In the early eighteenth century they agreed to convert this to an equivalent sum of money (the price of the calf, I guess, snowballs being fairly inexpensive). The landlords then increased the rent so quickly that within a century the clan could no longer afford to pay it and were driven off the land.
Moral: don’t ever let anyone talk you out of a bargain.
In the East End of London one’s rent can be diverted from the landlord and frittered away on jellied eels.
In the 18th century, native eels were plentiful in the River Thames and estuary, and Dutch eel barges and fishmongers a common sight. One cheap and easy preparation, particularly among the East End working-class poor, was to chop the eels, boil them in herbs, and then allow them to cool. The eels would produce enough of their own gelatin so that a soft jelly would form around the pieces. (Today, a bit of gelatin is often added.) When the first pie-and-mash shops began opening in the 19th century, jellied eels—and stewed eels, boiled and served hot—were the only other staple on the menu. And so it is today at the handful of legit eel-pie-and-mash shops remaining.
As for the taste? Once you get past the soft texture, which can be off-putting, the taste is great—mild and slightly salty, not at all “fishy.” There’s just one bone in the eel to eat around. Common accompaniments are vinegar and white pepper.
