Venturing into Herculaneum was a first for me, and I was utterly captivated from the moment we stepped through its ancient gates. For years, my imagination had been primarily captured by Pompeii. I’d seen countless documentaries, read books, and envisioned the sprawling city frozen in ash and visited three times over the last twenty years.
So, I arrived in Herculaneum with certain expectations, mostly taken from its more famous, larger sibling. What I found, however, was a personal surprise.
Read more: Move Over, Pompeii: Why Herculaneum Stole My History-Loving HeartHerculaneum is undeniably smaller and much quieter than Pompeii. There are fewer crowds, less tour groups, and a more hushed atmosphere that immediately sets it apart. But it was precisely this tranquillity, this feeling of having discovered a hidden gem, that became a major part of its charm. Instead of being overwhelmed by sheer scale (and crowds. I hate crowds), I found myself drawn into the tiny details, able to spend time truly studying the city rather than merely being swept along on a wave of a crowd.
What struck me most was the incredible state of preservation. The main difference lies in the nature of the event that engulfed it in 79 AD. While Pompeii was buried by falling ash and pumice, Herculaneum was swallowed by pyroclastic flows (For the normal not nerdy, people out there that means superheated avalanches of volcanic gas and debris that moved at incredible speeds.) These flows, a mix of hot mud and ash, hardened almost instantly around the town, effectively creating a perfect, oxygen-free seal. This wasn’t just a burial; it was an encapsulation.
The result is astonishing, amazing and super cool.
Unlike in Pompeii, where the famous plaster casts capture the dead in their final moments, Herculaneum offers something far more substantial.
Here, it’s not just the foundations of buildings that remain, but entire multi-story structures, their upper floors still largely intact. Walking through the narrow streets, I gazed up at what were once balconies and windows, I could picture daily Roman life. The sense of place is different, less of a ghostly outline and more of a solid, albeit ancient, reality.
As we explored, I was surprised by surviving details. Mosaic floors, depicting geometric patterns, sea creatures, and mythological scenes, shimmered even after two millennia. (Ok yes, I know they get cleaned and what not, but lets get carried away, ok?)
Beautiful frescoes, in rich reds, blues, and golds favoured by Roman artists, adorned walls, telling stories of domestic life, heroic deeds, or simple pastoral scenes. It wasn’t hard to imagine the original inhabitants admiring these same walls as they reclined on their couches and sipped their wines, grown on the slopes of the mountain that was to destroy them.
But perhaps the most surprising thing for myself as history nerd, was the survival of organic materials. We saw original sections of burnt wood – timbers, doorframes, even intact beds – that had been carbonised by the intense heat of the pyroclastic flow, yet remarkably preserved in the hardened mud.
I later discovered in the museum there was a process to help preserve the wood once it had been unearthed. The first discoveries crumbled in contact with air and humidity, after trial and error they currently use a kind of epoxy resin to seal it.
To stand in front of a piece of wood, glass or jewellery knowing it was handled by someone in the Roman Empire, was an experience I love to repeat. (My husband and daughter have so much patience with me and my passion for old things.) It goes beyond just academic understanding and becomes a human moment.
What I loved most was that Herculaneum isn’t about grand public squares or massive monuments; it’s entirely about the lives of ordinary people, shopkeepers, fishermen, and everyday families. You can walk straight into places like the House of the Bicentenary and imagine a family hanging out in the atrium, or walk into the shops where the storage jars and counters look like the owner just stepped out for a lunch break and could walk back in at any second. (Ignore the gravel and weeds popping up and use your imagination.) Even the bathhouses, with their separate men’s and women’s sections and ancient under-floor heating, make you feel like you are really walking through history.
But as amazing as the preservation is, the town eventually forces you to confront the absolute horror of what happened here.
One of the most impactful and haunting sights in Herculaneum is the series of boat houses that once lined the seashore. Here, hundreds of skeletons were discovered, huddled together, where they had desperately sought refuge from the approaching disaster. They were found exactly as they perished, trapped and instantly vaporised by the searing heat of the pyroclastic flow, their bones preserved in the solidified mud.
To see so many human remains (I believe the bones on display are copies. The originals are in the museum but it doesnt change the impact), almost two thousand years old, gathered in their final, desperate moments, was profoundly moving. It was a scene that etched itself into my memory.
It stops being a cool archaeological day trip and becomes a heartbreaking reminder of just how brutal nature can be.
My daughter, it turned out, was absolutely fascinated by the whole thing. It’s funny how kids process these kinds of sobering sights through a totally different lens. Instead of being freaked out, she just stood there staring at the skeletons for ages, completely captivated. I could practically see the gears turning in her head as she tried to wrap her mind around the scale of the tragedy and what those people’s lives were actually like. It sparked these incredibly deep conversations between us about life, death, and just how mind-bogglingly long ago 79 AD really was. No school textbook could ever compete with that.
Beyond the poignant skeletons, she particularly enjoyed the museum-like qualities of the site. She (and I) was captivated by the sheer detail in the preserved burnt wooden furniture, from intricately carved beds to simple wooden chests. These weren’t just abstract ideas of Roman craftsmanship; they were actual, tangible pieces that had survived. In fact, most of what we know today about Roman wooden furniture comes from right here. It offered her a glimpse into the domestic world of ancient Romans that went beyond the usual pottery shards or glass items. She improved her photography again, taking probably a hundred photos, of the statues, the preserved boat or furniture, but mostly abstract blurs…
Of course, her favourite activity again involved playing at all the ancient “fast food bars”—the thermopolia. These were Roman snack bars, complete with counter space and large dolia (storage jars) embedded within, where locals would grab hot food and drinks. She loved peering into them, imagining what delicious, ancient meals would have been served, and pretending to serve her own Roman take-out of pebbles and leaves. It was a lovely moment where a child’s imagination breathed new life into an ancient space.
Between the grand scale of Pompeii and the intimate preservation of Herculaneum, which would you be more drawn to?
I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments!
