FINALE?
In about six months' time I shall be eighty years' old and I have decided that, as from today, I shall write no more blogs, at least for the time being. There are a host of reasons: I have been ill, I am running out of ideas, and I want to do other things. None of these reasons are remotely earth-shattering, but to me they seem very relevant.
And what other things do I want to do? Well, daubing acrylics pictures, listening to music, staring at the sea, family history research, and doing as much of nothing as I can get away with.
Seriously, for some time it has occurred to me that I don't have a lot fresh left to say, having scribbled and burbled far too much, anyway, over the last 65 years. Football? Much less interested that I was. Books to read? Absolutely. Transfixed by the boundless possibilities of digital technology? Not really. It's a useful tool, but so was a sharpened flint.
So after about 140 blogs I might have reached the bottom of the bucket. Have enjoyed it, though, and I have enjoyed your company. Perhaps we'll meet again some time.
Monday 29 December 2014
Sunday 28 December 2014
BOOKS UNWRITTEN
On my sixteenth birthday my father gave me a second-hand portable typewriter, a clunky contraption by today's standards, I suppose, encased in a stout wooden box complete with carrying handle. I have no idea where he got it from, but there was a deal of good sense behind the gift. I had just left school and was about to start my first job, as a cub reporter on a local weekly newspaper in south Lincolnshire. Now I was able to teach myself how to hammer the keys and write something, a skill which - I recall - impressed my new colleagues for a few seconds when I did finally report for duty.
But the old typewriter - manufacturer and model long forgotten - did something else, too. It brought about what some now call a light-bulb moment. I can remember very clearly sitting with the machine perched on a little table, rolling in a sheet of paper, and starting to write. Starting to write a novel, for goodness sake. Something about Paris, an aircraft which crashed in the Himalayas, a hunt for survivors, and about the rediscovery of letters and diaries thought lost forever in the Nepalese snows. And so forth. I think I wrote twenty or thirty pages of text.
Then I stopped because it slowly dawned on me I couldn't do it. I had never been to the Himalayas or even seen mountains - I came from the Fens, remember, and this was a period of Austerity - had never explored Paris or even flown in an aeroplane. In fact, I had never been out of the country. So a few weeks' later I tossed the pages into a waste bin having learned two valuable lessons: that I now knew that above all else I wanted to write; and that if I write then it would need to be about things I knew set in places I had actually visited.
The thrill of the moment sparked by that old typewriter over sixty years' ago, that light-bulb moment, has never faded or gone away. Even today the desire remains, for I have loved querty keyboards and books ever since. It is true, of course, that during the subsequent sixty years I have written, quite a lot, for newspapers, mainly, and magazines and books, and more recently, this blog. But I was never able to make a living out of fiction. Couldn't make the breakthrough. Didn't try hard enough. Unable to cut the mustard. Not good enough, I suppose.
The trouble is that whereas the actual desire to physically write something can and sometimes does diminish with age, ideas of what to write do not stop flowing. One consequence is that I have three or four completed novels in MS form waiting in limbo in dusty drawers and tatty folders, along with notes for at least five more.
These, I have no doubt, will remain unwritten. They are simply frozen ideas which will never see the light of day. Thus, a shortening of concentration levels is one thing; the thought and frustration of finishing another novel and then simply shoving it in the drawer is another.
So here's a toast to the pile of unread books sitting on my bedside table, awaiting their turn, and to all unwritten books, the forlorn piles of ideas and research notes bundled together with elastic bands. And here's to the time spent on fascinating but ultimately wasted research, to half-remembered ideas and to an inability to do them justice.
Actually, I am beginning to believe that unwritten books are a marvellous resource. There should be a library for them somewhere.
On my sixteenth birthday my father gave me a second-hand portable typewriter, a clunky contraption by today's standards, I suppose, encased in a stout wooden box complete with carrying handle. I have no idea where he got it from, but there was a deal of good sense behind the gift. I had just left school and was about to start my first job, as a cub reporter on a local weekly newspaper in south Lincolnshire. Now I was able to teach myself how to hammer the keys and write something, a skill which - I recall - impressed my new colleagues for a few seconds when I did finally report for duty.
But the old typewriter - manufacturer and model long forgotten - did something else, too. It brought about what some now call a light-bulb moment. I can remember very clearly sitting with the machine perched on a little table, rolling in a sheet of paper, and starting to write. Starting to write a novel, for goodness sake. Something about Paris, an aircraft which crashed in the Himalayas, a hunt for survivors, and about the rediscovery of letters and diaries thought lost forever in the Nepalese snows. And so forth. I think I wrote twenty or thirty pages of text.
Then I stopped because it slowly dawned on me I couldn't do it. I had never been to the Himalayas or even seen mountains - I came from the Fens, remember, and this was a period of Austerity - had never explored Paris or even flown in an aeroplane. In fact, I had never been out of the country. So a few weeks' later I tossed the pages into a waste bin having learned two valuable lessons: that I now knew that above all else I wanted to write; and that if I write then it would need to be about things I knew set in places I had actually visited.
The thrill of the moment sparked by that old typewriter over sixty years' ago, that light-bulb moment, has never faded or gone away. Even today the desire remains, for I have loved querty keyboards and books ever since. It is true, of course, that during the subsequent sixty years I have written, quite a lot, for newspapers, mainly, and magazines and books, and more recently, this blog. But I was never able to make a living out of fiction. Couldn't make the breakthrough. Didn't try hard enough. Unable to cut the mustard. Not good enough, I suppose.
The trouble is that whereas the actual desire to physically write something can and sometimes does diminish with age, ideas of what to write do not stop flowing. One consequence is that I have three or four completed novels in MS form waiting in limbo in dusty drawers and tatty folders, along with notes for at least five more.
These, I have no doubt, will remain unwritten. They are simply frozen ideas which will never see the light of day. Thus, a shortening of concentration levels is one thing; the thought and frustration of finishing another novel and then simply shoving it in the drawer is another.
So here's a toast to the pile of unread books sitting on my bedside table, awaiting their turn, and to all unwritten books, the forlorn piles of ideas and research notes bundled together with elastic bands. And here's to the time spent on fascinating but ultimately wasted research, to half-remembered ideas and to an inability to do them justice.
Actually, I am beginning to believe that unwritten books are a marvellous resource. There should be a library for them somewhere.
Tuesday 23 December 2014
IN TIME OF WAR
It was a very small moment in time, an inconsequential fragment of the Second World War. All one can say is that it may have been significant to those who actually took part. Or maybe not. Perhaps it was all a little too tongue-in-cheek. Either way, the story is recounted in a copy of a newspaper cutting dated July 22, 1940, and it concerned a Norfolk village detachment of the LDV (Local Defence Volunteers), the hastily organised forerunners of the Home Guard.
Apparently they had built for themselves a fortification, or blockade, on the village green. What sort of fortification was not made clear, but it is obvious they were proud of it because they decided to organise a weekend exercise and place their defences under 'attack.' So they informed the Army and managed to book the services of some 'umpires' to check fair play and rule who was dead or captured, and so on. The ages of the LDV group evidently ranged from 15 to 63, and included one gentleman apparently determined to sort out the invaders with his fists.
On the appointed evening they mustered at the Green. Uniforms and rifles were issued to the defenders, while the 'Germans' were in mufti. Then, suddenly, car loads of Top Brass turned up to watch, as did most of the rest of the population of the village. And the battle did not begin well. As the defenders began to set up outposts, the 'enemy' suddenly appeared and started to lob 'hand grenades' (actually, tennis balls) which, an umpire ruled, had immediately 'killed' the commander of the defenders without a shot having been fired.
Then a mystery car appeared in the distance, drove unchallenged by one outpost and pulled up at the blockade. Suddenly, two more attackers leapt out, hurled their 'bombs' and charged the defences. Again, the umpire ruled both attackers and one defender 'dead.'
The situation appeared grim, but at this point another attacker appeared from out of the long, wet grass and hurled his 'bomb' which, alas for him, hit the side of the fortification and bounced back. The attacker was immediately ruled 'dead,' having been 'killed' by his own bomb.
This greatly cheered the defenders but, alas, they celebrated too soon. Unknown to them, another attacker had climbed to the roof of an adjoining farm house, and from the protection of the chimney stack had thrown his tennis ball with unerring accuracy into the middle of the blockade. The umpires ruled immediately that the entire garrison had been wiped out. Oddly, it did not dampen enthusiasm, for the report also adds that they were all greatly encouraged by the experience.
There are three interesting side issues to all this, one being that shortly after the action the over-confident LDV issued a another challenge, this time to a neighbouring village, to see if they could wipe out the fortification. Also, a typewritten note on the copy of the cutting explains that the article had been 'heavily censored and not sub-edited on its return.' In other words, the EDP printed it exactly as it had come back from the censor's office. Which may or may not explain some of the article's descriptive ambiguities.
A third point is that I have a suspicion - and this is a guess - that the village at the centre of all this excitment was Felthorpe, which is not far from Weston Longville. However, I didn't know Felthorpe had a village green. Or a fortfication for that matter.
(Our Village LDV, cutting, Eastern Daily Press, July 22, 1940)
It was a very small moment in time, an inconsequential fragment of the Second World War. All one can say is that it may have been significant to those who actually took part. Or maybe not. Perhaps it was all a little too tongue-in-cheek. Either way, the story is recounted in a copy of a newspaper cutting dated July 22, 1940, and it concerned a Norfolk village detachment of the LDV (Local Defence Volunteers), the hastily organised forerunners of the Home Guard.
Apparently they had built for themselves a fortification, or blockade, on the village green. What sort of fortification was not made clear, but it is obvious they were proud of it because they decided to organise a weekend exercise and place their defences under 'attack.' So they informed the Army and managed to book the services of some 'umpires' to check fair play and rule who was dead or captured, and so on. The ages of the LDV group evidently ranged from 15 to 63, and included one gentleman apparently determined to sort out the invaders with his fists.
On the appointed evening they mustered at the Green. Uniforms and rifles were issued to the defenders, while the 'Germans' were in mufti. Then, suddenly, car loads of Top Brass turned up to watch, as did most of the rest of the population of the village. And the battle did not begin well. As the defenders began to set up outposts, the 'enemy' suddenly appeared and started to lob 'hand grenades' (actually, tennis balls) which, an umpire ruled, had immediately 'killed' the commander of the defenders without a shot having been fired.
Then a mystery car appeared in the distance, drove unchallenged by one outpost and pulled up at the blockade. Suddenly, two more attackers leapt out, hurled their 'bombs' and charged the defences. Again, the umpire ruled both attackers and one defender 'dead.'
The situation appeared grim, but at this point another attacker appeared from out of the long, wet grass and hurled his 'bomb' which, alas for him, hit the side of the fortification and bounced back. The attacker was immediately ruled 'dead,' having been 'killed' by his own bomb.
This greatly cheered the defenders but, alas, they celebrated too soon. Unknown to them, another attacker had climbed to the roof of an adjoining farm house, and from the protection of the chimney stack had thrown his tennis ball with unerring accuracy into the middle of the blockade. The umpires ruled immediately that the entire garrison had been wiped out. Oddly, it did not dampen enthusiasm, for the report also adds that they were all greatly encouraged by the experience.
There are three interesting side issues to all this, one being that shortly after the action the over-confident LDV issued a another challenge, this time to a neighbouring village, to see if they could wipe out the fortification. Also, a typewritten note on the copy of the cutting explains that the article had been 'heavily censored and not sub-edited on its return.' In other words, the EDP printed it exactly as it had come back from the censor's office. Which may or may not explain some of the article's descriptive ambiguities.
A third point is that I have a suspicion - and this is a guess - that the village at the centre of all this excitment was Felthorpe, which is not far from Weston Longville. However, I didn't know Felthorpe had a village green. Or a fortfication for that matter.
(Our Village LDV, cutting, Eastern Daily Press, July 22, 1940)
Sunday 21 December 2014
FEN MEMORIES
The diarist Samuel Pepys described the Fens as a 'heathen place,' and Daniel Defoe noted there was a lot of water and, more often than not, fogs. Other members of the literary fraternity have also made use of the atmospheric potential, including Edward Storey and Graham Swift. Even Dorothy L Sayers allowed Lord Peter Wimsey to linger hereabouts and become sucked into a 1934 saga of churches, bellringing, and fenland murder and mayhem.
Of course, there is a lot less water about now, thanks to modern drainage, but a general feeling of loneliness and wateriness is still inescapable. It drips off every map, lives on in place-names (Lakesend, Walsoken, Outwell, Ten Mile Bank, Welney, Sluice Common, Salters Lode, Fen End, The Smeeth, Well Creek, etc) and has even spawned an ancient technical language: leam, sluice, lode, cut, roddon, channel, level, dyke, eau, hyde, drain and drove.
It seems to me there are at least three sorts of fen: the salty creeks of the Wash basin, the brown tones of marshland, and the black peat fens, further inland. We lived in marshland, and by and large, and other than home and home town, I disliked it, hated its raw-toothed scruffiness, its straight-line fields and drains and messy farms. On the other hand, there were moments when the great openness of the all-embracing sky and low horizons plucked a nerve or an emotion. It always was a question of balance, and now that nostalgia has taken over from immediacy I can think again of those vast, threatening spaces with rather more affection.
In a sense this balance, and indeed the fens and marshes themselves, seem directly related to the region's perennial flood/tide conundrum. If these fertile lands are to be used for agriculture and not left vulnerable to waterlogging, then they have to be drained. And if they are drained, then they will gradually sink and begin to erode.
The situation remains the same today. Inches can measure the difference between fertility and flooding, and always there is the brooding knowledge that if rainfall and river levels, high tides and high winds ever do combine - as they have, and doubtless will again - then only banks and sluices stand between safety and inundation.
So the fens (and marshland) exist in a world of their own - albeit greatly changed from Vermuyden's day - where the centuries have bred hard-working, resolute, independent people who know the real price and value of things, and created a no-nonsense landscape of huge fields, waterways, long roads, grassy banks and lonely farms which can, and sometimes do, hint at some future disaster.
As some of the most fertile land in the country it is also some of the most heavily cropped. When I began work in Spalding in 1951 I remember being told that a family, working hard enough to develop frost-knotted hands, could earn a living from a greenhouse and ten to 15 acres of land. Not a good living, but a living. Since then, changing times and agri-business have made inroads into the economics of smallholders, but the fertility - save the occasional fen blow - remains. Wheat, potatoes, vegetables, celery, apples and sugar beet. The spirit of the old 'fen tigers' remains intact.
As a youthful cyclist I recall these fieldscapes and vistas which, at the time, suggested nothingness. Huge skies, tall church spires, and winds that came out of nowhere to buffet and jostle and cajole. And mud. Oceans of it. And solitary trees, and no cover when the rain came. Hated it then, as I have said. Look upon it a little more kindly now.
But I would never go back. Not to live there, anyway. And yet by some means, and after all these years away, it still feels as though I have a little mud left on my boots.
The diarist Samuel Pepys described the Fens as a 'heathen place,' and Daniel Defoe noted there was a lot of water and, more often than not, fogs. Other members of the literary fraternity have also made use of the atmospheric potential, including Edward Storey and Graham Swift. Even Dorothy L Sayers allowed Lord Peter Wimsey to linger hereabouts and become sucked into a 1934 saga of churches, bellringing, and fenland murder and mayhem.
Of course, there is a lot less water about now, thanks to modern drainage, but a general feeling of loneliness and wateriness is still inescapable. It drips off every map, lives on in place-names (Lakesend, Walsoken, Outwell, Ten Mile Bank, Welney, Sluice Common, Salters Lode, Fen End, The Smeeth, Well Creek, etc) and has even spawned an ancient technical language: leam, sluice, lode, cut, roddon, channel, level, dyke, eau, hyde, drain and drove.
It seems to me there are at least three sorts of fen: the salty creeks of the Wash basin, the brown tones of marshland, and the black peat fens, further inland. We lived in marshland, and by and large, and other than home and home town, I disliked it, hated its raw-toothed scruffiness, its straight-line fields and drains and messy farms. On the other hand, there were moments when the great openness of the all-embracing sky and low horizons plucked a nerve or an emotion. It always was a question of balance, and now that nostalgia has taken over from immediacy I can think again of those vast, threatening spaces with rather more affection.
In a sense this balance, and indeed the fens and marshes themselves, seem directly related to the region's perennial flood/tide conundrum. If these fertile lands are to be used for agriculture and not left vulnerable to waterlogging, then they have to be drained. And if they are drained, then they will gradually sink and begin to erode.
The situation remains the same today. Inches can measure the difference between fertility and flooding, and always there is the brooding knowledge that if rainfall and river levels, high tides and high winds ever do combine - as they have, and doubtless will again - then only banks and sluices stand between safety and inundation.
So the fens (and marshland) exist in a world of their own - albeit greatly changed from Vermuyden's day - where the centuries have bred hard-working, resolute, independent people who know the real price and value of things, and created a no-nonsense landscape of huge fields, waterways, long roads, grassy banks and lonely farms which can, and sometimes do, hint at some future disaster.
As some of the most fertile land in the country it is also some of the most heavily cropped. When I began work in Spalding in 1951 I remember being told that a family, working hard enough to develop frost-knotted hands, could earn a living from a greenhouse and ten to 15 acres of land. Not a good living, but a living. Since then, changing times and agri-business have made inroads into the economics of smallholders, but the fertility - save the occasional fen blow - remains. Wheat, potatoes, vegetables, celery, apples and sugar beet. The spirit of the old 'fen tigers' remains intact.
As a youthful cyclist I recall these fieldscapes and vistas which, at the time, suggested nothingness. Huge skies, tall church spires, and winds that came out of nowhere to buffet and jostle and cajole. And mud. Oceans of it. And solitary trees, and no cover when the rain came. Hated it then, as I have said. Look upon it a little more kindly now.
But I would never go back. Not to live there, anyway. And yet by some means, and after all these years away, it still feels as though I have a little mud left on my boots.
Wednesday 17 December 2014
TEXEL'S TORMENT
Looking back, it must have been one of the most perplexing moments of the Second World War. And no-one was more perplexed at the time than coastguards Reg Earl and Howard Dawes, duty night-time lookouts at Mundesley beach who, during the dark early hours of April 10, 1945, saw a signal light out to sea and glimpsed the outline of an open boat. On board were what looked like armed men in uniform, so while one coastguard rushed to alert the Home Guard, the other prepared to meet the visitors, who-ever they were.
Things were no clearer when the boat beached and 14 men clambered ashore, for it turned out there were ten Dutchmen and four Russians, some of them wearing German army uniforms. It took a long time to sort things out.
This, it should be remembered, was a week before the Red Army entered Austria and one day before the Americans liberated Buchenwald. Indeed, the events behind the beaching went on until May 20, by which time Hitler and Mussolini were dead, the German forces had surrendered, and VE-Day had been celebrated. The boat on Mundesley beach thus represented one of the very last actions of the European War.
The entire episode began when captured soldiers from the Soviet Republic of Georgia were given an ultimatum by the Germans: remain in PoW camps, which meant probable death, or serve the invaders. The 822nd Georgia Infantry Battalion was formed from those who chose the latter, and in the late stages of the War the battalion was sent to Texel (pronounced Tessel), a heavily fortified Dutch island which was a pivotal point in the German Atlantic Wall defence.
On April 5, 1945, and almost a year after D-Day, the 822nd mutined. The Georgians killed some of the German garrison in their barracks and attacked the island's two gun batteries. With no response from the Allies - still preoccupied with the invasion - the reinforced Germans counter-attacked, and did so with brutal intent. Battles raged, and there was awful slaughter and reprisal on both sides, and it did not stop until May 20.
A few days after fighting broke out the group of 14 men stole the island's lifeboat, spent 27 dangerous hours at sea, and eventually landed on Mundesley beach after admitting they had 'got a bit lost.' When it was all sorted out they were given food and drink and taken to London.
Why had they made this brave escape attempt? Well, it seems the escapees carried with them two letters. One evidently pledged the Georgian troops' continued allegiance to Stalin and the USSR (a difficult point for them to argue, because they were actually wearing the uniforms of a German army unit). The other letter apparently urged the Allies to send troops or ships to Texel to bombard the German positions and bring supplies and ammunition.
Who ever had the task of considering the matter - if the matter was considered at all - is not known. And so, again, the Allies did not respond. No doubt the invasion forces already had enough on their plate, and did not have enough supplies to divert some away from the main thrust.
Indeed, the surviving groups of rebels on Texel, and those Texel residents who tried to go to their aid and paid an awful price, received no assistance at all until May 20, when elements of the Canadian army arrived. It is thought, however, that at least one Allied reconaissance aircraft did overfly the island in an atempt to check the situation, but the German commander ordered it should be left alone, in case it brought forth Allied retaliation. Thus Texel, for some time, had to suffer in isolation.
Looking back, it must have been one of the most perplexing moments of the Second World War. And no-one was more perplexed at the time than coastguards Reg Earl and Howard Dawes, duty night-time lookouts at Mundesley beach who, during the dark early hours of April 10, 1945, saw a signal light out to sea and glimpsed the outline of an open boat. On board were what looked like armed men in uniform, so while one coastguard rushed to alert the Home Guard, the other prepared to meet the visitors, who-ever they were.
Things were no clearer when the boat beached and 14 men clambered ashore, for it turned out there were ten Dutchmen and four Russians, some of them wearing German army uniforms. It took a long time to sort things out.
This, it should be remembered, was a week before the Red Army entered Austria and one day before the Americans liberated Buchenwald. Indeed, the events behind the beaching went on until May 20, by which time Hitler and Mussolini were dead, the German forces had surrendered, and VE-Day had been celebrated. The boat on Mundesley beach thus represented one of the very last actions of the European War.
The entire episode began when captured soldiers from the Soviet Republic of Georgia were given an ultimatum by the Germans: remain in PoW camps, which meant probable death, or serve the invaders. The 822nd Georgia Infantry Battalion was formed from those who chose the latter, and in the late stages of the War the battalion was sent to Texel (pronounced Tessel), a heavily fortified Dutch island which was a pivotal point in the German Atlantic Wall defence.
On April 5, 1945, and almost a year after D-Day, the 822nd mutined. The Georgians killed some of the German garrison in their barracks and attacked the island's two gun batteries. With no response from the Allies - still preoccupied with the invasion - the reinforced Germans counter-attacked, and did so with brutal intent. Battles raged, and there was awful slaughter and reprisal on both sides, and it did not stop until May 20.
A few days after fighting broke out the group of 14 men stole the island's lifeboat, spent 27 dangerous hours at sea, and eventually landed on Mundesley beach after admitting they had 'got a bit lost.' When it was all sorted out they were given food and drink and taken to London.
Why had they made this brave escape attempt? Well, it seems the escapees carried with them two letters. One evidently pledged the Georgian troops' continued allegiance to Stalin and the USSR (a difficult point for them to argue, because they were actually wearing the uniforms of a German army unit). The other letter apparently urged the Allies to send troops or ships to Texel to bombard the German positions and bring supplies and ammunition.
Who ever had the task of considering the matter - if the matter was considered at all - is not known. And so, again, the Allies did not respond. No doubt the invasion forces already had enough on their plate, and did not have enough supplies to divert some away from the main thrust.
Indeed, the surviving groups of rebels on Texel, and those Texel residents who tried to go to their aid and paid an awful price, received no assistance at all until May 20, when elements of the Canadian army arrived. It is thought, however, that at least one Allied reconaissance aircraft did overfly the island in an atempt to check the situation, but the German commander ordered it should be left alone, in case it brought forth Allied retaliation. Thus Texel, for some time, had to suffer in isolation.
Sunday 14 December 2014
STRANGE VILLAGE
The strangest thing about a cutting I turned up recently in a largely forgotten file was not its headline about The Strangest Village, but the fact that someone other than me had snipped off the name of the local newspaper from which it was taken. Only the year of publication remained, 1932, which goes some way to explaining why I cannot remember where I got it from.
Nevertheless, the Special Correspondent who wrote the article had plainly done his homework, visiting this evidently weird place and in the process discovering that:
The village in question had no baker, butcher, fishmonger, draper, tailor, bootmaker or resident policeman. It was close to the coast, yet residents could not see the sea. No-one in the village had the surname Smith, Brown, Jones or Robinson. The 500 or so inhabitants were not able to call upon a loal doctor, chemist or dentist. It had a railway, but no station, and a church but no chapel. And one of the local farms was hitherto in the possession of a family named Crowe, their predecessors being the Rookes, and their neighbours the Owles and the Starlings.
I certainly liked the Norfolkesque story the writer told of a meeting a yokel who claimed they didn't burn much oil in the village. Why not, the visitor asked? Replied the yokel: 'In the summer I potter in the garden until its time for bed, and in the winter go to bed early.' That would drive me to drink, retorted the visitor. ,Well,' said the old man, 'you'd have to go to Trimingham or Trunch for that.'
As for the village, it was (and still is) called Gimingham, and is between Cromer and Mundesley in east Norfolk. As for the description, it seems to me to fit pretty much any present-day Norfolk village.
ENERGY SEARCH
Fracking is the current energy buzzword. It is also a subject which, if it ever visits Norfolk, will provoke a very heated debate. Old-timers, however, will muse that it - or something like it - has happened before.
In 1914 oil-bearing shales in the county were seen as a possible source of paraffin, but a high sulphur content proved a fatal stumbling block. Then six years' later oilmen thought they had struck liquid gold when oily deposits were seen floating down the River Puny (yes, that is correct) at Setch, near King's Lynn. Workers arrived, a shanty town sprang up, and the locality was extensively drilled. But once again, the product was either below par or too expensive to process.
Don't start celebrating yet, however, because in 1986 coal exploration licences were issued for the northen half of Norwich and as far out as Coltishall, Aylsham, Hindolveston and Honingham, and including land in Happisburgh, Acle and around Great Yarmouth. Searches had already covered other blocks of land at Syderstone, East Ruston, Potter Heigham, Saxthorpe and Irstead.
Energy exploration could still be coming to a town or village near you.
The strangest thing about a cutting I turned up recently in a largely forgotten file was not its headline about The Strangest Village, but the fact that someone other than me had snipped off the name of the local newspaper from which it was taken. Only the year of publication remained, 1932, which goes some way to explaining why I cannot remember where I got it from.
Nevertheless, the Special Correspondent who wrote the article had plainly done his homework, visiting this evidently weird place and in the process discovering that:
The village in question had no baker, butcher, fishmonger, draper, tailor, bootmaker or resident policeman. It was close to the coast, yet residents could not see the sea. No-one in the village had the surname Smith, Brown, Jones or Robinson. The 500 or so inhabitants were not able to call upon a loal doctor, chemist or dentist. It had a railway, but no station, and a church but no chapel. And one of the local farms was hitherto in the possession of a family named Crowe, their predecessors being the Rookes, and their neighbours the Owles and the Starlings.
I certainly liked the Norfolkesque story the writer told of a meeting a yokel who claimed they didn't burn much oil in the village. Why not, the visitor asked? Replied the yokel: 'In the summer I potter in the garden until its time for bed, and in the winter go to bed early.' That would drive me to drink, retorted the visitor. ,Well,' said the old man, 'you'd have to go to Trimingham or Trunch for that.'
As for the village, it was (and still is) called Gimingham, and is between Cromer and Mundesley in east Norfolk. As for the description, it seems to me to fit pretty much any present-day Norfolk village.
ENERGY SEARCH
Fracking is the current energy buzzword. It is also a subject which, if it ever visits Norfolk, will provoke a very heated debate. Old-timers, however, will muse that it - or something like it - has happened before.
In 1914 oil-bearing shales in the county were seen as a possible source of paraffin, but a high sulphur content proved a fatal stumbling block. Then six years' later oilmen thought they had struck liquid gold when oily deposits were seen floating down the River Puny (yes, that is correct) at Setch, near King's Lynn. Workers arrived, a shanty town sprang up, and the locality was extensively drilled. But once again, the product was either below par or too expensive to process.
Don't start celebrating yet, however, because in 1986 coal exploration licences were issued for the northen half of Norwich and as far out as Coltishall, Aylsham, Hindolveston and Honingham, and including land in Happisburgh, Acle and around Great Yarmouth. Searches had already covered other blocks of land at Syderstone, East Ruston, Potter Heigham, Saxthorpe and Irstead.
Energy exploration could still be coming to a town or village near you.
Thursday 11 December 2014
CROSSWINDS
About a decade ago I suddenly recalled - for no particular reason that I can remember - something that an American ex-USAAF Liberator waist-gunner had said to me many years before. Do you realise, he had exclaimed, that some of our guys over here during the Second World War were actually posted to airfields next door to the same village their ancestors had left generations before in order to emigrate to the States?
I hadn't come across this before, but the idea evidently stuck in my mind. I think I liked the idea of 17th century pilgrims sailing to New England, and Liberators crews flying back. It embraced a circularity that appealed.
Then I remembered the story of Peter Foulger, the Norfolk youngster who quit this country in the 1630s and sailed to New England, eventually making quite a name for himself and becoming grandfather of the illustrious Benjamin Franklin. And I remembered the fearsome battle of Saratoga in 1777, when the British Army, including a Norfolk regiment, fought and lost, whereupon numbers of them disappeared into the trees because they wanted to forge a new life in a new land rather than return to English poverty.
Several of these themes - voyage and emigration, Franklin, the Native Indian populations, the bloody slopes of Saratoga and the desertions, and Yanks arriving in the English countryside during the War - rolled around in my mind until I decided to try to create a novel about it. A novel about human inter-dependence: what drives people to migrate, and what brings them back. But above all, about circularity.
There was a problem, though. I had never been to the States, and Google does have its limitations. Finally, accompanied by a son and daughter-in-law, I flew to Newark and took a brief look at New York. More importantly, we also went to the museum and site of Benjamin Franklin's house in Philadelphia, visited the location of the battle of Saratoga (on a blisteringly hot day, I recall) and trod the hillsides where the old Norfolk 9th Regiment of Foot had battled so bravely, and then took a short sea trip to see Nantucket, to check out the Foulger end of things.
It was all quite thrilling, but writing the novel was a different matter. It was hard, and it took several years. But after an original draft, and two complete re-writes, it was finally completed in 2013, a yarn of about 80,000 words. I called it Crosswinds.
The blow - and a blow experienced by most writers, of course - fell later. I couldn't find a publisher, either here or in the States. No-one wanted even to cast a glance at it, never mind read it. So after a year of trying, I gave up. The manuscript went into a drawer where it nestles still, happily and comfortably, I trust, alongside three or four other 'unwanted' novels and a pile of 'unwanted' short stories.
It is not sympathy I am seeking, because I really did enjoy the research and the writing, and would certainly never have visited the States had it not been for Crosswinds. As for having a pile of unwanted manuscripts stuffed in a drawer, well, that is the nature of the beast. Anyone who has made the effort to try to write a story can tell a similar tale. After all, there are far more words written than ever see light of day.
So to my mind, Crosswinds is not a complete failure simply because its current address is the bottom drawer in my study, because the experiences gained from having become involved in it in the first place were priceless, and would not have been gained in any other way.
About a decade ago I suddenly recalled - for no particular reason that I can remember - something that an American ex-USAAF Liberator waist-gunner had said to me many years before. Do you realise, he had exclaimed, that some of our guys over here during the Second World War were actually posted to airfields next door to the same village their ancestors had left generations before in order to emigrate to the States?
I hadn't come across this before, but the idea evidently stuck in my mind. I think I liked the idea of 17th century pilgrims sailing to New England, and Liberators crews flying back. It embraced a circularity that appealed.
Then I remembered the story of Peter Foulger, the Norfolk youngster who quit this country in the 1630s and sailed to New England, eventually making quite a name for himself and becoming grandfather of the illustrious Benjamin Franklin. And I remembered the fearsome battle of Saratoga in 1777, when the British Army, including a Norfolk regiment, fought and lost, whereupon numbers of them disappeared into the trees because they wanted to forge a new life in a new land rather than return to English poverty.
Several of these themes - voyage and emigration, Franklin, the Native Indian populations, the bloody slopes of Saratoga and the desertions, and Yanks arriving in the English countryside during the War - rolled around in my mind until I decided to try to create a novel about it. A novel about human inter-dependence: what drives people to migrate, and what brings them back. But above all, about circularity.
There was a problem, though. I had never been to the States, and Google does have its limitations. Finally, accompanied by a son and daughter-in-law, I flew to Newark and took a brief look at New York. More importantly, we also went to the museum and site of Benjamin Franklin's house in Philadelphia, visited the location of the battle of Saratoga (on a blisteringly hot day, I recall) and trod the hillsides where the old Norfolk 9th Regiment of Foot had battled so bravely, and then took a short sea trip to see Nantucket, to check out the Foulger end of things.
It was all quite thrilling, but writing the novel was a different matter. It was hard, and it took several years. But after an original draft, and two complete re-writes, it was finally completed in 2013, a yarn of about 80,000 words. I called it Crosswinds.
The blow - and a blow experienced by most writers, of course - fell later. I couldn't find a publisher, either here or in the States. No-one wanted even to cast a glance at it, never mind read it. So after a year of trying, I gave up. The manuscript went into a drawer where it nestles still, happily and comfortably, I trust, alongside three or four other 'unwanted' novels and a pile of 'unwanted' short stories.
It is not sympathy I am seeking, because I really did enjoy the research and the writing, and would certainly never have visited the States had it not been for Crosswinds. As for having a pile of unwanted manuscripts stuffed in a drawer, well, that is the nature of the beast. Anyone who has made the effort to try to write a story can tell a similar tale. After all, there are far more words written than ever see light of day.
So to my mind, Crosswinds is not a complete failure simply because its current address is the bottom drawer in my study, because the experiences gained from having become involved in it in the first place were priceless, and would not have been gained in any other way.
Tuesday 9 December 2014
JOHN'S TREASURE
The essence of this episode can be stated in eight words, all of which will be grasped immediately by most of today's schoolchildren: King John lost his jewels in the Wash. The rest of the story, however, is cloaked in speculation and argument. Which makes this mysterious occurrence even more intriguing, of course.
It certainly happened, in 1216. But where? Was it near Fosdyke, close to the mouth of the river Welland, as some modern revisionists have suggested; or as most Long Suttonians have long believed, on the Sutton Wash estuary of the river Nene? And what was the treasure? Gold and silver, or ancient books and legal documents? Or was there never any 'treasure' in the first place, as some have speculated, because the King was largely bankrupt?
There are more questions than answers, and what is actually known does not take long in the telling. It is known, for example, that on October 2 John travelled to Grimsby, apparently to arrange for military equipment and stores to be shipped to what is now King's Lynn. He was back in Lynn on October 9, possibly having used one of the Sutton Wash crossing points. And was still there on October 11, reaching Wisbech the following day and arriving in Swineshead later that same day. It was, without doubt, a hard schedule for a very sick man.
The precise details of these daily movements are unknown, and there has been much speculation as to how the schedule was achieved. John may have gone directly from Lynn to Wisbech, crossing the Nene by the town bridge before heading for Spalding and then Swineshead. Or he may have crossed the estuary and ridden to Wisbech before awaiting the arrival of his baggage train.
Naturally, it is the movement of the baggage train which has excited most curiousity, for its attempted crossing of the estuary using the Cross Keys to Sutton route apparently at a time when the tide was about to turn can only suggest either that the baggage train was in a desperate hurry, or that someone must have ignored or over-ruled the advice of local guides. Either way - and it might have been both - and assuming the event did take place here and not Fosdyke, it was a foolhardy decision.
Crossings of the Wash, and between the Lincolnshire and Norfolk coasts, seem to have been taking place at least since the Bronze Age. The Romans almost certainly used the Wash either as an anchorage or supply route to coastal ports, or even inland destinations via the local rivers. And there were certainly other estuary crossing places in addition to Cross Keys.
Precisely when the Sutton-Cross Keys route came into being no-one knows. But we do know when it came to an end. This followed the realignment of the river Nene in the early part of the 19th century, because after this, in 1831, a bridge was built and a causeway opened from Norfolk to Lincolnshire. You can still see it, a grassy and disused embankment on the north side of the A17 close to the present Nene swing bridge at Sutton Bridge. A few years after the opening, when the last of the Sutton Wash guides died, he was buried in Long Sutton churchyard because the church at Sutton Bridge had not then been built.
The whole King John episode has sparked some odd investigations over the decades, none stranger than one shortly before the Second World War when an 'expedition' to find the jewels excited interest and suspicion, so much so that years later, when I was a boy, a story was still current that the searchers were not archaeological experts looking for treasure but 'Nazi spies' mapping the fieldscapes in preparation for later landings by paratroopers.
Interestingly, in 1940 and 1941, during the 'invasion scare' period, defensive preparations for enemy paratroop landings were still high on the list of local military priorities.
The essence of this episode can be stated in eight words, all of which will be grasped immediately by most of today's schoolchildren: King John lost his jewels in the Wash. The rest of the story, however, is cloaked in speculation and argument. Which makes this mysterious occurrence even more intriguing, of course.
It certainly happened, in 1216. But where? Was it near Fosdyke, close to the mouth of the river Welland, as some modern revisionists have suggested; or as most Long Suttonians have long believed, on the Sutton Wash estuary of the river Nene? And what was the treasure? Gold and silver, or ancient books and legal documents? Or was there never any 'treasure' in the first place, as some have speculated, because the King was largely bankrupt?
There are more questions than answers, and what is actually known does not take long in the telling. It is known, for example, that on October 2 John travelled to Grimsby, apparently to arrange for military equipment and stores to be shipped to what is now King's Lynn. He was back in Lynn on October 9, possibly having used one of the Sutton Wash crossing points. And was still there on October 11, reaching Wisbech the following day and arriving in Swineshead later that same day. It was, without doubt, a hard schedule for a very sick man.
The precise details of these daily movements are unknown, and there has been much speculation as to how the schedule was achieved. John may have gone directly from Lynn to Wisbech, crossing the Nene by the town bridge before heading for Spalding and then Swineshead. Or he may have crossed the estuary and ridden to Wisbech before awaiting the arrival of his baggage train.
Naturally, it is the movement of the baggage train which has excited most curiousity, for its attempted crossing of the estuary using the Cross Keys to Sutton route apparently at a time when the tide was about to turn can only suggest either that the baggage train was in a desperate hurry, or that someone must have ignored or over-ruled the advice of local guides. Either way - and it might have been both - and assuming the event did take place here and not Fosdyke, it was a foolhardy decision.
Crossings of the Wash, and between the Lincolnshire and Norfolk coasts, seem to have been taking place at least since the Bronze Age. The Romans almost certainly used the Wash either as an anchorage or supply route to coastal ports, or even inland destinations via the local rivers. And there were certainly other estuary crossing places in addition to Cross Keys.
Precisely when the Sutton-Cross Keys route came into being no-one knows. But we do know when it came to an end. This followed the realignment of the river Nene in the early part of the 19th century, because after this, in 1831, a bridge was built and a causeway opened from Norfolk to Lincolnshire. You can still see it, a grassy and disused embankment on the north side of the A17 close to the present Nene swing bridge at Sutton Bridge. A few years after the opening, when the last of the Sutton Wash guides died, he was buried in Long Sutton churchyard because the church at Sutton Bridge had not then been built.
The whole King John episode has sparked some odd investigations over the decades, none stranger than one shortly before the Second World War when an 'expedition' to find the jewels excited interest and suspicion, so much so that years later, when I was a boy, a story was still current that the searchers were not archaeological experts looking for treasure but 'Nazi spies' mapping the fieldscapes in preparation for later landings by paratroopers.
Interestingly, in 1940 and 1941, during the 'invasion scare' period, defensive preparations for enemy paratroop landings were still high on the list of local military priorities.
Sunday 7 December 2014
TOPPING TIMES
During those sunlit summers of long ago that we now call childhood, it was very much the case that one had to invent one's own amusements. This was particularly so in the dying days of the Second World War, when no-one knew whether to be happy because the fighting was nearly over, or cry because of what had been lost. So whereas in 1945 there were few opportunities to 'go out,' or do anything new, and when playing on your own in the garden was the norm, by 1946 horizons had widened.
In my case, the end of the War also brought into my circle of interest an entertainment that was to dominate my dreams until I left school: the circus.
Mostly, in our case, it was Fossett, Sanger or Rosaire, but the little shows would turn up in our town every summer, regular as clockwork, sometimes three or four a year. They usually found a willing audience, though by the early 1950s, I have to confess, other interests (cars, television, holidays) were taking over and enchantment with the Big Top was coming to an end. I did not recognise this at the time, but it was plain even to me that some of the shows were struggling. The numbers of animals and acts were reducing, and recorded music was replacing the circus bands.
In our town the key site for any visiting circus - or funfair, for that matter - was Cinder Ash field, a public area and popular walk next door to the recreation ground; a pleasant tree-circled sward approached from the town side by a little bridge which crossed a perennially dry ditch. The circus vans and lorries had to approach from the other side; but once there, they fitted snugly into the leafy scene.
We had a plan, of course. We would study the circus posters plastered around town and work out on which day the first vehicles, the tent transporters, would be arriving. Then, thanks to our bikes, we were able to hover in the background while the vehicles and caravans sorted themselves out, perhaps enjoying the brief glimpse of a couple of listless lions in a wheeled cage, some of the horses, or very occasionally, spotting an elephant stretching its legs in the sunshine.
We were looking for jobs, of course; volunteer jobs which, if we were fortunate, might lead to a free ticket. The trick was to wait and keep out distance until the king poles had been hauled upright and secured, and the Big Top canvas sections had been unloaded, sorted, and laid flat in position on the ground.
This was the signal for the bike brigade to move in closer and start chatting to the roustabouts. We liked to forge a relaxed relationship, and for a very good reason - the circus folk had a very boring job ahead of them. They had to lace all the panels together before they could be hoisted up the king poles, and it was a tedious business. So this was the point when, if we were lucky, they would beckon us across and ask for assistance.
You had to start at the top end of two canvas panels and then, on one's knees, push one rope loop through the loop on the opposite side, and so op and so forth all the way down until the two panels were laced together. Then when the job was finished and the Big Top had been hoisted and secured, then they would (sometimes) reward us, either with a closer look at the animals, some sweets, or better still, a free ticket for one of the performances.
Small beer nowadays, of course, but something looked upon at the time as a major experience.
During those sunlit summers of long ago that we now call childhood, it was very much the case that one had to invent one's own amusements. This was particularly so in the dying days of the Second World War, when no-one knew whether to be happy because the fighting was nearly over, or cry because of what had been lost. So whereas in 1945 there were few opportunities to 'go out,' or do anything new, and when playing on your own in the garden was the norm, by 1946 horizons had widened.
In my case, the end of the War also brought into my circle of interest an entertainment that was to dominate my dreams until I left school: the circus.
Mostly, in our case, it was Fossett, Sanger or Rosaire, but the little shows would turn up in our town every summer, regular as clockwork, sometimes three or four a year. They usually found a willing audience, though by the early 1950s, I have to confess, other interests (cars, television, holidays) were taking over and enchantment with the Big Top was coming to an end. I did not recognise this at the time, but it was plain even to me that some of the shows were struggling. The numbers of animals and acts were reducing, and recorded music was replacing the circus bands.
In our town the key site for any visiting circus - or funfair, for that matter - was Cinder Ash field, a public area and popular walk next door to the recreation ground; a pleasant tree-circled sward approached from the town side by a little bridge which crossed a perennially dry ditch. The circus vans and lorries had to approach from the other side; but once there, they fitted snugly into the leafy scene.
We had a plan, of course. We would study the circus posters plastered around town and work out on which day the first vehicles, the tent transporters, would be arriving. Then, thanks to our bikes, we were able to hover in the background while the vehicles and caravans sorted themselves out, perhaps enjoying the brief glimpse of a couple of listless lions in a wheeled cage, some of the horses, or very occasionally, spotting an elephant stretching its legs in the sunshine.
We were looking for jobs, of course; volunteer jobs which, if we were fortunate, might lead to a free ticket. The trick was to wait and keep out distance until the king poles had been hauled upright and secured, and the Big Top canvas sections had been unloaded, sorted, and laid flat in position on the ground.
This was the signal for the bike brigade to move in closer and start chatting to the roustabouts. We liked to forge a relaxed relationship, and for a very good reason - the circus folk had a very boring job ahead of them. They had to lace all the panels together before they could be hoisted up the king poles, and it was a tedious business. So this was the point when, if we were lucky, they would beckon us across and ask for assistance.
You had to start at the top end of two canvas panels and then, on one's knees, push one rope loop through the loop on the opposite side, and so op and so forth all the way down until the two panels were laced together. Then when the job was finished and the Big Top had been hoisted and secured, then they would (sometimes) reward us, either with a closer look at the animals, some sweets, or better still, a free ticket for one of the performances.
Small beer nowadays, of course, but something looked upon at the time as a major experience.
Wednesday 3 December 2014
ON TOUR
Books on travel inevitably provide a snapshot of how things were at a particular moment. If the writer is observant and competent, that is. This makes such books particularly useful if you are writing historically and studying the period of choice. You can also get an inkling of the atmosphere of the moment from journals and diaries, of course; but it is travel books, and particularly travel books about England, I find fascinating. I have quite a few.
A recent shuffle through my bookshelves brought to light an embarrassment of riches, including Celia Fiennes and Daniel Defoe, William Dutt and John Byng, JB Priestley and Carl Philip Moritz, James Plumtre, Arthur Young and HV Morton. I dare say there are a few more tucked away if I cared to dig deeper.
HV Morton's In Search of England was undertaken, written and published in 1927, which was no mean feat, his travels being by motor-car, and I have always found it fascinating even if Morton himself sometimes comes across as a bit of a nostalgic duffer.
What I had not realised - until I stumbled across a copy of I Saw Two Englands in a charity shop - is that Morton had actually undertaken three expeditions around England, the second in May, 1939, and the third in October of the same year, when war was very much in the air. In fact, the final third of this book is devoted to a tour of the country seven weeks after the War started.
Armed with a bundle of official letters, permits, petrol coupons and letters of introduction, and provided with a gas mask and a first-aid box, and his faithful motor-car, he visited aircraft factories, spoke to air raid wardens and Land Army girls, watched a fishing fleet come in after a night of dodging mines, toured an ammunitions factory and a prisoner-of-war camp, visited the postal censorship office, and watched tanks roll off a production line.
Morton also weaved a delightful story around the dispersal of ministries and Government departments in London into the countryside, when he decided to visit the Cereal Imports Committee. Previously housed in Baltic House, in St Mary Ax, the chaps who purchased wheat from the world were now housed in a 'hidden' mansion somewhere in Surrey.
He drove to the village, asked directions and drew a blank, because there was nothing to see. So he went to the post office, asked for the way to the Committee's offices and again drew a blank. Then he mentioned someone's name. This produced a glimmer of recognition, and he was given directions to a mansion set amid acres of woodland and pasture. A butler answered his knock at the front door.
This chap, still splendidly stiff with formality, evidently lead him through gilded room after gilded room, and finally asked for a particular person by name. 'Mr Blank?' queried a clerk, somewhat irreverently. 'I expect you will find him in the swimming bath.'
The butler then took Mr Morton into a 'fabulously expensive' indoor swimming bath. In order to make space for the Cereal Imports Committee from the Baltic Exchange the water, of course, had been drained out and a wooden floor inserted. And in this ornate hole in the ground some 30 clerks were beavering away at trestle tables 'with their noses in ledgers or their mouths to the telephones.' Not far away, on the squash court, there were more offices, more clerks, and more trestle tables and telephones.
Morton said later that every time he ate bread he recalled that the wheat had originated in a house among yellowing woods and crowing pheasants.
(I Saw Two Englands, by HV Morton. Methuen, 1942)
Books on travel inevitably provide a snapshot of how things were at a particular moment. If the writer is observant and competent, that is. This makes such books particularly useful if you are writing historically and studying the period of choice. You can also get an inkling of the atmosphere of the moment from journals and diaries, of course; but it is travel books, and particularly travel books about England, I find fascinating. I have quite a few.
A recent shuffle through my bookshelves brought to light an embarrassment of riches, including Celia Fiennes and Daniel Defoe, William Dutt and John Byng, JB Priestley and Carl Philip Moritz, James Plumtre, Arthur Young and HV Morton. I dare say there are a few more tucked away if I cared to dig deeper.
HV Morton's In Search of England was undertaken, written and published in 1927, which was no mean feat, his travels being by motor-car, and I have always found it fascinating even if Morton himself sometimes comes across as a bit of a nostalgic duffer.
What I had not realised - until I stumbled across a copy of I Saw Two Englands in a charity shop - is that Morton had actually undertaken three expeditions around England, the second in May, 1939, and the third in October of the same year, when war was very much in the air. In fact, the final third of this book is devoted to a tour of the country seven weeks after the War started.
Armed with a bundle of official letters, permits, petrol coupons and letters of introduction, and provided with a gas mask and a first-aid box, and his faithful motor-car, he visited aircraft factories, spoke to air raid wardens and Land Army girls, watched a fishing fleet come in after a night of dodging mines, toured an ammunitions factory and a prisoner-of-war camp, visited the postal censorship office, and watched tanks roll off a production line.
Morton also weaved a delightful story around the dispersal of ministries and Government departments in London into the countryside, when he decided to visit the Cereal Imports Committee. Previously housed in Baltic House, in St Mary Ax, the chaps who purchased wheat from the world were now housed in a 'hidden' mansion somewhere in Surrey.
He drove to the village, asked directions and drew a blank, because there was nothing to see. So he went to the post office, asked for the way to the Committee's offices and again drew a blank. Then he mentioned someone's name. This produced a glimmer of recognition, and he was given directions to a mansion set amid acres of woodland and pasture. A butler answered his knock at the front door.
This chap, still splendidly stiff with formality, evidently lead him through gilded room after gilded room, and finally asked for a particular person by name. 'Mr Blank?' queried a clerk, somewhat irreverently. 'I expect you will find him in the swimming bath.'
The butler then took Mr Morton into a 'fabulously expensive' indoor swimming bath. In order to make space for the Cereal Imports Committee from the Baltic Exchange the water, of course, had been drained out and a wooden floor inserted. And in this ornate hole in the ground some 30 clerks were beavering away at trestle tables 'with their noses in ledgers or their mouths to the telephones.' Not far away, on the squash court, there were more offices, more clerks, and more trestle tables and telephones.
Morton said later that every time he ate bread he recalled that the wheat had originated in a house among yellowing woods and crowing pheasants.
(I Saw Two Englands, by HV Morton. Methuen, 1942)
Monday 1 December 2014
DICK TURPIN
Much of my childhood was coloured by tales of Dick Turpin, the highwayman, because a short distance from our home in Long Sutton (Lincs) was a narrow roadway known as Swapcote Lane. And it was there, according to folklore, that Turpin exchanged his coat with a sympathetic local and thus escaped his pursuers.
The story, however, has many holes in it. To begin with, Swapcote - named thus before Turpin was born - was also known as Swepcot, and before that, Nettlebed Lane. And second, although Turpin is thought to have had relatives in the area, not many Suttonians would have displayed much sympathy for him. Because Turpin was more than a bully. He was also a thug, a swindler and a murderer.
He had arrived in the town in July, 1737, his previous hunting grounds of Epping Forest, Finchley Common and Hounslow Heath having become too hot for him. In his 30s, stylishly dressed, and with a face scarred by smallpox, he announced himself as a horse dealder and butcher named John Palmer (Palmer being his mother's maiden name).
Legend also had it that he stabled his horse in High Street, then known as Village Street or Kirkgate. This at least may have been true, for there was also a tradition that Turpin's cottage and butcher's shop were attached to buildings owned by families named Crosby, on one side, and Oliver on the other.
Palmer appeared to be a person of substance, and although he stayed only nine months it was noted he was frequently away, and was thought to have attended Manchester races. However, it began to dawn on folk that Palmer was not who he said he was, and a complaint (or perhaps several complaints, possibly for horse stealing) was levelled against him. Finally, an arrest warrant was issued by the JP, Mr Delamore, but when a constable went to serve it he was knocked to the ground. Palmer was not seen in the town again.
And that might have been the end of the story as far as Long Sutton was concerned until, a year later, Mr Delamore received a letter from a magistrate in Beverley, Yorkshire, saying that Palmer had been arrested for shooting, while drunk, his landlord's gamecock, and asking if, as Palmer had evidently claimed, his father lived in Long Sutton. Mr Delamore replied giving the details of the attempted arrest and assault on the constable. And so the highwayman's goose was cooked.
The trial of John Palmer opened at York Assizes on March 22, 1739, and faced with the evidence he soon admitted that he was Richard (Dick) Turpin, one-time Essex butcher and highwayman. Nevertheless, at his trial he was found guilty only of horse stealing. But it was enough. He was 34 when he was hanged, a clerk later writing on the verdict sheet: 'Guilty. No goods. Hanged.'
In more recent years Long Sutton has been fascinated by Turpin's short stay, and there is one account, written by a former local clergyman, Canon Leigh Bennett, in which he said he had talked to a builder named Carbutt who remembered demolishing a cottage at the back of the then Post Office near where the Old Welcome pub had once stood. This cottage said to have have been, briefly, Turpin's home.
Mr Carbutt also claimed, apparently, that during the demolition he found a horse pistol with a silver handle, and the skeleton of a horse. Possible, of course, but in terms of local folklore this was two stories too far.
Much of my childhood was coloured by tales of Dick Turpin, the highwayman, because a short distance from our home in Long Sutton (Lincs) was a narrow roadway known as Swapcote Lane. And it was there, according to folklore, that Turpin exchanged his coat with a sympathetic local and thus escaped his pursuers.
The story, however, has many holes in it. To begin with, Swapcote - named thus before Turpin was born - was also known as Swepcot, and before that, Nettlebed Lane. And second, although Turpin is thought to have had relatives in the area, not many Suttonians would have displayed much sympathy for him. Because Turpin was more than a bully. He was also a thug, a swindler and a murderer.
He had arrived in the town in July, 1737, his previous hunting grounds of Epping Forest, Finchley Common and Hounslow Heath having become too hot for him. In his 30s, stylishly dressed, and with a face scarred by smallpox, he announced himself as a horse dealder and butcher named John Palmer (Palmer being his mother's maiden name).
Legend also had it that he stabled his horse in High Street, then known as Village Street or Kirkgate. This at least may have been true, for there was also a tradition that Turpin's cottage and butcher's shop were attached to buildings owned by families named Crosby, on one side, and Oliver on the other.
Palmer appeared to be a person of substance, and although he stayed only nine months it was noted he was frequently away, and was thought to have attended Manchester races. However, it began to dawn on folk that Palmer was not who he said he was, and a complaint (or perhaps several complaints, possibly for horse stealing) was levelled against him. Finally, an arrest warrant was issued by the JP, Mr Delamore, but when a constable went to serve it he was knocked to the ground. Palmer was not seen in the town again.
And that might have been the end of the story as far as Long Sutton was concerned until, a year later, Mr Delamore received a letter from a magistrate in Beverley, Yorkshire, saying that Palmer had been arrested for shooting, while drunk, his landlord's gamecock, and asking if, as Palmer had evidently claimed, his father lived in Long Sutton. Mr Delamore replied giving the details of the attempted arrest and assault on the constable. And so the highwayman's goose was cooked.
The trial of John Palmer opened at York Assizes on March 22, 1739, and faced with the evidence he soon admitted that he was Richard (Dick) Turpin, one-time Essex butcher and highwayman. Nevertheless, at his trial he was found guilty only of horse stealing. But it was enough. He was 34 when he was hanged, a clerk later writing on the verdict sheet: 'Guilty. No goods. Hanged.'
In more recent years Long Sutton has been fascinated by Turpin's short stay, and there is one account, written by a former local clergyman, Canon Leigh Bennett, in which he said he had talked to a builder named Carbutt who remembered demolishing a cottage at the back of the then Post Office near where the Old Welcome pub had once stood. This cottage said to have have been, briefly, Turpin's home.
Mr Carbutt also claimed, apparently, that during the demolition he found a horse pistol with a silver handle, and the skeleton of a horse. Possible, of course, but in terms of local folklore this was two stories too far.
Friday 28 November 2014
THIS IS LONDON
At no time have I made a deliberate decision to collect writings about the Second World War, but it does seem that over the years, and quite randomly, an unusual number of titles have somehow gravitated towards my shelves.
HE Bates (particularly his short stories written under the name of Flying Officer X) I have mentioned before. And probably Ernest Hemingway, too, who honed his journalistic (and novel writing) skills during the earlier Spanish Civil War. So, too, Martha Gellhorn, a very fine writer and, of course, still involved with Hemingway in the late 1930s. And John Steinbeck. They all described and interpreted those years of blackouts, bombings and blitzes in their own individualistic way.
Gellhorn's writing I have always liked, while Hemingway could become a mite overbearing. Steinbeck, on the other hand, was mostly thoughtful and observant. Well, now another such book has managed to propel itself from the shelves of a local charity shop and land safely among my other volumes.
This one is a little bit different because it deals with the wireless and a broadcaster, rather than the written word, though I have to say it scans and reads almost as well because the man himself wrote the text to be spoken out aloud. In Search of Light, it is called, but it is the secondary title, The Broadcasts of Ed Murrow, 1938-61, that gives the game away.
Ed Murrow - he of the wry grin, furrowed brow and laconic voice - made more than 5,000 broadcasts, beginning with an eye-witness report on Hitler's seizure of Austria and ending, nearly a quarter of a century later, with observations on the inaugural address of John F Kennedy. Between times, he did enough to earn himself the title of unofficial American ambassador to Britain during its finest hour.
One story about him says a lot. In December, 1941, when he was on leave from London, Ed was invited to the White House to talk to the president, Franklin D Roosevelt, about the morale of the British people after two years' of war. When the chat was concluded the off-guard president, relaxed and perhaps charmed by his guest, chattily informed Murrow of the true level of damage inflicted by the Japanese at Pearl Harbour.
It was a story Murrow considered privileged and there was, in consequence, no Murrow broadcast about Pearl Harbour.
However, it is likely he is best remembered in this country for his broadcast 'chats' from London during the worst days of the War. It was on September 22, 1938, that for the very first time he began his broadcast by saying, 'This is London . . . ' And on D-Day, June 6, 1944, he told his listeners, 'This is London. Early this morning we heard the bombers going out. It was the sound of a giant factory in the sky. It seemed to shake the old grey stone buildings in this bruised and battered city . . . '
Murrow lived through, and reported, so much more: the founding of the United Nations, the emergence of Africa, the Communist take-over in China, the Atomic Age, McCarthyism, and so on. And it caused him to comment afterwards, 'I have lived through it as a reporter and can scarcely credit it.'
His own place in history is secure, of course, and 'This is London' has become an emotive phrase as redolent of a particular time as the Warsaw Concerto, Vera Lynn, and the sound of air raid sirens.
(In Search of Light, by Ed Murrow. Macmillan, 1968)
At no time have I made a deliberate decision to collect writings about the Second World War, but it does seem that over the years, and quite randomly, an unusual number of titles have somehow gravitated towards my shelves.
HE Bates (particularly his short stories written under the name of Flying Officer X) I have mentioned before. And probably Ernest Hemingway, too, who honed his journalistic (and novel writing) skills during the earlier Spanish Civil War. So, too, Martha Gellhorn, a very fine writer and, of course, still involved with Hemingway in the late 1930s. And John Steinbeck. They all described and interpreted those years of blackouts, bombings and blitzes in their own individualistic way.
Gellhorn's writing I have always liked, while Hemingway could become a mite overbearing. Steinbeck, on the other hand, was mostly thoughtful and observant. Well, now another such book has managed to propel itself from the shelves of a local charity shop and land safely among my other volumes.
This one is a little bit different because it deals with the wireless and a broadcaster, rather than the written word, though I have to say it scans and reads almost as well because the man himself wrote the text to be spoken out aloud. In Search of Light, it is called, but it is the secondary title, The Broadcasts of Ed Murrow, 1938-61, that gives the game away.
Ed Murrow - he of the wry grin, furrowed brow and laconic voice - made more than 5,000 broadcasts, beginning with an eye-witness report on Hitler's seizure of Austria and ending, nearly a quarter of a century later, with observations on the inaugural address of John F Kennedy. Between times, he did enough to earn himself the title of unofficial American ambassador to Britain during its finest hour.
One story about him says a lot. In December, 1941, when he was on leave from London, Ed was invited to the White House to talk to the president, Franklin D Roosevelt, about the morale of the British people after two years' of war. When the chat was concluded the off-guard president, relaxed and perhaps charmed by his guest, chattily informed Murrow of the true level of damage inflicted by the Japanese at Pearl Harbour.
It was a story Murrow considered privileged and there was, in consequence, no Murrow broadcast about Pearl Harbour.
However, it is likely he is best remembered in this country for his broadcast 'chats' from London during the worst days of the War. It was on September 22, 1938, that for the very first time he began his broadcast by saying, 'This is London . . . ' And on D-Day, June 6, 1944, he told his listeners, 'This is London. Early this morning we heard the bombers going out. It was the sound of a giant factory in the sky. It seemed to shake the old grey stone buildings in this bruised and battered city . . . '
Murrow lived through, and reported, so much more: the founding of the United Nations, the emergence of Africa, the Communist take-over in China, the Atomic Age, McCarthyism, and so on. And it caused him to comment afterwards, 'I have lived through it as a reporter and can scarcely credit it.'
His own place in history is secure, of course, and 'This is London' has become an emotive phrase as redolent of a particular time as the Warsaw Concerto, Vera Lynn, and the sound of air raid sirens.
(In Search of Light, by Ed Murrow. Macmillan, 1968)
Tuesday 25 November 2014
SEASONAL TALK
Most folk in our north Norfolk seaside town talk of 'seasons.' The crabbing season, the holiday season. That sort of thing. But in fact at least three things tend to dictate whether the seafront and shops are busy or not - the season, the weather, and the tides, which in turn dictate if the beaches are available. Even so, it is a complex business, constantly taking people by surprise, and you can sense the off-season puzzlement if the weather is good, the tides are low and the town is busy, but the ice cream shops are closed.
'They've missed a trick,' you think. Yet it was probably all due to a quirk of the calendar. Had the weather been dodgy the place would have been deserted, and anyway, even ice cream retailers have to take some time off.
Occasionally, perhaps in February or March, and particularly if the weather is deceptively mild, the ice cream parlours are open even if the seafront is only moderately busy, and you think, 'They know something, these shop people.' Do they, or are they gambling?
Mild weather and low tides bring visitors in at any time, even in the middle of winter. But the 'summer' visitor season usually kicks off well before Easter and then receives a further shot in the arm when the school 'season' opens, or rather, when the schools close. Then, all the trains - main line and steam - are busy and the trippers, many of them grans and grampas, troop away from the stations usually with grandchildren and dogs in tow, looking for a seafront place in the sun.
This is also the season when the locals do their own shopping early, before 10.30am, otherwise there is nowhere to park and little pleasure to be gained in wandering crowded pavements.
The carnival season, and events like the potty (Morris dance) day, extend this period somewhat; but then, as soon as the schools go back, it is noticeable that droves of grans and gramps, perhaps worn ragged by a summer of entertaining the grandchildren, take two or three weeks' off, or even a day or two off, and come back in order to be able to watch the crab boats launching off the beach and to watch the sea in peace.
The next season is a strange one, for in our town 'summer' is further extended by a 1940s weekend. Originally centered on the steam railway station, it now embraces the whole town and is becoming bigger and more successful every year. In essence, enthusiasts come from all over the country in order to enjoy it or, more likely, to take part in it.
Ostensibly, this is a 'late kicker' for holiday trade, because after that, after all the traditional and mid-year seasons have come and gone, then the town depends almost entirely not only on the inevitable Christmas season, which flickers into life in November, but also on those other factors mentioned earlier: weather, and low tides.
This, of course, is known as the late Autumn or Winter season which, once the Christmas season has ended, comes into its own early the following year when the locals are largely left to their own devices again. Until the early ice cream season begins and all the other seasons start to roll once again, of course.
Most folk in our north Norfolk seaside town talk of 'seasons.' The crabbing season, the holiday season. That sort of thing. But in fact at least three things tend to dictate whether the seafront and shops are busy or not - the season, the weather, and the tides, which in turn dictate if the beaches are available. Even so, it is a complex business, constantly taking people by surprise, and you can sense the off-season puzzlement if the weather is good, the tides are low and the town is busy, but the ice cream shops are closed.
'They've missed a trick,' you think. Yet it was probably all due to a quirk of the calendar. Had the weather been dodgy the place would have been deserted, and anyway, even ice cream retailers have to take some time off.
Occasionally, perhaps in February or March, and particularly if the weather is deceptively mild, the ice cream parlours are open even if the seafront is only moderately busy, and you think, 'They know something, these shop people.' Do they, or are they gambling?
Mild weather and low tides bring visitors in at any time, even in the middle of winter. But the 'summer' visitor season usually kicks off well before Easter and then receives a further shot in the arm when the school 'season' opens, or rather, when the schools close. Then, all the trains - main line and steam - are busy and the trippers, many of them grans and grampas, troop away from the stations usually with grandchildren and dogs in tow, looking for a seafront place in the sun.
This is also the season when the locals do their own shopping early, before 10.30am, otherwise there is nowhere to park and little pleasure to be gained in wandering crowded pavements.
The carnival season, and events like the potty (Morris dance) day, extend this period somewhat; but then, as soon as the schools go back, it is noticeable that droves of grans and gramps, perhaps worn ragged by a summer of entertaining the grandchildren, take two or three weeks' off, or even a day or two off, and come back in order to be able to watch the crab boats launching off the beach and to watch the sea in peace.
The next season is a strange one, for in our town 'summer' is further extended by a 1940s weekend. Originally centered on the steam railway station, it now embraces the whole town and is becoming bigger and more successful every year. In essence, enthusiasts come from all over the country in order to enjoy it or, more likely, to take part in it.
Ostensibly, this is a 'late kicker' for holiday trade, because after that, after all the traditional and mid-year seasons have come and gone, then the town depends almost entirely not only on the inevitable Christmas season, which flickers into life in November, but also on those other factors mentioned earlier: weather, and low tides.
This, of course, is known as the late Autumn or Winter season which, once the Christmas season has ended, comes into its own early the following year when the locals are largely left to their own devices again. Until the early ice cream season begins and all the other seasons start to roll once again, of course.
Sunday 23 November 2014
MAGGOTBOX
It may come as a mild surprise to today's savvy generations to learn that only 35 years' ago steps were being taken by the UK military authorities to rehearse the physical control of aggressive and rioting civilian protesters. I say 'mild,' because the police do this sort of thing all the time. Crowd control, and all that. But this was the Territorial Army, with guns, training in Norfolk's busy Stanford Battle Area.
It was also at the height of the Cold War when there were problems everywhere and lots of tension. Ground to air missiles at North Pickenham, Neatishead's radar operators keeping an eye on non-NATO aircraft zooming across the North Sea, Lakenheath jets loaded with nuclear bombs and ready to go, Norfolk's 'war room' with its four-minute warning, the CND protesting, military planners wanting nuclear warheads deployed in Thetford's forests, and spyplanes creeping around the edges of space peeking at the Soviets and their satellites.
Thinking I ought to see what was going on, militarily, I sought permission to join the TA on one of their Battle Area exercises. They said 'yes,' and I still have a copy of the Press briefing notes, and an Army map, dating to that time. The notes describe the training area (17,500 acres of mixed woodland, fir plantations, marshes and deserted villages) and range facilities, point out that in 1975 some 66,000 troops used the facility, and list among 'potential tresspassers' into the area 'fire raisers' and 'saboteurs of expensive equipment.' There was also another category at the bottom of the same list, scrubbed out by someone's black Biro, which originally read, 'students and militants.'
The TA detachment I joined for three days was billeted at Bodney camp, beside the B1108, where we were all briefed and given jobs. As a neutral, I was asked to join a car load of soldiers (in civvies, one with a cine camera) who were ordered to tour the area's guarded facilities, pretend to be a civvy media team, and try to extract information from the unsuspecting sentries.
No-one, they assured me, would get into trouble. It was for assessment purposes only. So I agreed to join, and we sweet-talked sentries at three or four guarded facilities - mostly around Watton and Croxton - and managed to weedle out of them assorted information about what they were guarding, how many guards there were, and so on. The TA brass, I think, were pleased with our efforts but appalled by the results.
The big effort came the next day and involved a set-piece 'battle' in the middle of the forest between dozens of troops and opponents, loosely described as 'the enemy.' Off the record, I was told, they might be Red Army paratroopers. Or, I suppose, students and militants.
Anyway, the exercise began with a pre-dawn assembly at Brack Wood, near Buckenham Tofts park, the troops moving to the start-line in White House Strip and Square Wood, with a forward element alongside Union Belt. Then at the appointed hour the assault (using blanks, of course) on Maggotbox Wood and Bramble Wood began. It was very noisy, even exciting. And out chaps won, of course, the Red infiltrators and their weapons being pushed back towards The Arms and then surrounded. 'Prisoners', I think, were taken.
It was all explained away at the time as a necessary 'trial run' in case terrorists and such-like infiltrated the area, and it echoed the tension of the time. What was more difficult to grasp was the full implication of such preparations - the Army 'shooting' at students, or civilian protesters. Mind you, at the time we didn't fully grasp the implications of a nuclear attack on the region, either.
It may come as a mild surprise to today's savvy generations to learn that only 35 years' ago steps were being taken by the UK military authorities to rehearse the physical control of aggressive and rioting civilian protesters. I say 'mild,' because the police do this sort of thing all the time. Crowd control, and all that. But this was the Territorial Army, with guns, training in Norfolk's busy Stanford Battle Area.
It was also at the height of the Cold War when there were problems everywhere and lots of tension. Ground to air missiles at North Pickenham, Neatishead's radar operators keeping an eye on non-NATO aircraft zooming across the North Sea, Lakenheath jets loaded with nuclear bombs and ready to go, Norfolk's 'war room' with its four-minute warning, the CND protesting, military planners wanting nuclear warheads deployed in Thetford's forests, and spyplanes creeping around the edges of space peeking at the Soviets and their satellites.
Thinking I ought to see what was going on, militarily, I sought permission to join the TA on one of their Battle Area exercises. They said 'yes,' and I still have a copy of the Press briefing notes, and an Army map, dating to that time. The notes describe the training area (17,500 acres of mixed woodland, fir plantations, marshes and deserted villages) and range facilities, point out that in 1975 some 66,000 troops used the facility, and list among 'potential tresspassers' into the area 'fire raisers' and 'saboteurs of expensive equipment.' There was also another category at the bottom of the same list, scrubbed out by someone's black Biro, which originally read, 'students and militants.'
The TA detachment I joined for three days was billeted at Bodney camp, beside the B1108, where we were all briefed and given jobs. As a neutral, I was asked to join a car load of soldiers (in civvies, one with a cine camera) who were ordered to tour the area's guarded facilities, pretend to be a civvy media team, and try to extract information from the unsuspecting sentries.
No-one, they assured me, would get into trouble. It was for assessment purposes only. So I agreed to join, and we sweet-talked sentries at three or four guarded facilities - mostly around Watton and Croxton - and managed to weedle out of them assorted information about what they were guarding, how many guards there were, and so on. The TA brass, I think, were pleased with our efforts but appalled by the results.
The big effort came the next day and involved a set-piece 'battle' in the middle of the forest between dozens of troops and opponents, loosely described as 'the enemy.' Off the record, I was told, they might be Red Army paratroopers. Or, I suppose, students and militants.
Anyway, the exercise began with a pre-dawn assembly at Brack Wood, near Buckenham Tofts park, the troops moving to the start-line in White House Strip and Square Wood, with a forward element alongside Union Belt. Then at the appointed hour the assault (using blanks, of course) on Maggotbox Wood and Bramble Wood began. It was very noisy, even exciting. And out chaps won, of course, the Red infiltrators and their weapons being pushed back towards The Arms and then surrounded. 'Prisoners', I think, were taken.
It was all explained away at the time as a necessary 'trial run' in case terrorists and such-like infiltrated the area, and it echoed the tension of the time. What was more difficult to grasp was the full implication of such preparations - the Army 'shooting' at students, or civilian protesters. Mind you, at the time we didn't fully grasp the implications of a nuclear attack on the region, either.
Thursday 20 November 2014
PEDDARS UPDATE
I have always found the Peddars Way - Norfolk's best surviving Roman road, which runs from Stanton Chare in Suffolk to the north Norfolk coast - intriguing in terms of its basics, namely when and why. When was it built, AD47 or post-AD60/61? And why? A military patrol road, a route to a ferry, supply road, or all of these things?
MC Bishop's new book does not answer these questions directly, but it does present a cluster of fresh perspectives on Roman roads in Britain in general, and some of his points seem to have a bearing on the Peddars Way and its beginnings and later use.
First, he suggests, the Romans did not invent hard-surface roadways or even bring the idea with them. Britain already had some routes with hard-surface sections long before the Romans arrived, and there is increasing evidence for them (including causeways, of course) in several places, opening up the possibility that some of these roads (as opposed to tracks) may date from the Iron Age or even the Bronze Age.
Second, the author suggests, the Romans would not have had the time during the invasion phase to begin construction, which throws into question previous thoughts that the Legions might have built their roads as they advanced. His argument is that, with time short and calls on manpower pressing, the advancing Legions would, as far as possible, simply have used existing prehistoric tracks.
Third, he argues that it could only have been during the later consolidation phase - after the invaders had found the local networks with their wandering and muddy surfaces utterly unsuitable for marching troops, and for carts and wagons - that the business of constructing their own roads actually began.
And four, what the Romans actually introduced to Britain was not hard surfaces but all-weather roads, laid out by surveyors with an understanding of gradients and curves, complete with drainage systems. Military and strategic use of almost every part of the network was paramount, so in other words, they simply, and rather skillfully, updated the existing native network.
So how can we apply this to the Peddars Way? Well, if Mr Bishop is right about the Legions using the native network - which seems a logical suggestion - then perhaps they did incorporate into their roads some of the tracks already existing in west and north-west Norfolk. It has been written about before and some writers have said, without recourse to caution, that they did. Yet I don't believe there is any hard evidence for it at all, one reason being that we do not know where the Iron Age or Bronze Age tracks were in the first place.
But here's a thought: maybe the Peddars Way, or sections of it, is actually an updated and improved replacement for Norfolk's part of the Icknield Way. In other words, perhaps the Peddars Way does incorporate pieces of the much-older Icknield.
Another strand of thought in the book is that the Roman military and supply roads, with their all-weather surfaces, bridges and fords, clearly brought long-term benefit to the inhabitants of these islands, particularly during the Medieval period.
It is difficult to argue against that. And it is easy to forget, perhaps, that even today's road network is, by and large, a patchwork, or an accumulation, of many other older networks.
(The Secret History of the Roman Roads of Britain. By MC Bishop. Pen & Sword, 2014)
I have always found the Peddars Way - Norfolk's best surviving Roman road, which runs from Stanton Chare in Suffolk to the north Norfolk coast - intriguing in terms of its basics, namely when and why. When was it built, AD47 or post-AD60/61? And why? A military patrol road, a route to a ferry, supply road, or all of these things?
MC Bishop's new book does not answer these questions directly, but it does present a cluster of fresh perspectives on Roman roads in Britain in general, and some of his points seem to have a bearing on the Peddars Way and its beginnings and later use.
First, he suggests, the Romans did not invent hard-surface roadways or even bring the idea with them. Britain already had some routes with hard-surface sections long before the Romans arrived, and there is increasing evidence for them (including causeways, of course) in several places, opening up the possibility that some of these roads (as opposed to tracks) may date from the Iron Age or even the Bronze Age.
Second, the author suggests, the Romans would not have had the time during the invasion phase to begin construction, which throws into question previous thoughts that the Legions might have built their roads as they advanced. His argument is that, with time short and calls on manpower pressing, the advancing Legions would, as far as possible, simply have used existing prehistoric tracks.
Third, he argues that it could only have been during the later consolidation phase - after the invaders had found the local networks with their wandering and muddy surfaces utterly unsuitable for marching troops, and for carts and wagons - that the business of constructing their own roads actually began.
And four, what the Romans actually introduced to Britain was not hard surfaces but all-weather roads, laid out by surveyors with an understanding of gradients and curves, complete with drainage systems. Military and strategic use of almost every part of the network was paramount, so in other words, they simply, and rather skillfully, updated the existing native network.
So how can we apply this to the Peddars Way? Well, if Mr Bishop is right about the Legions using the native network - which seems a logical suggestion - then perhaps they did incorporate into their roads some of the tracks already existing in west and north-west Norfolk. It has been written about before and some writers have said, without recourse to caution, that they did. Yet I don't believe there is any hard evidence for it at all, one reason being that we do not know where the Iron Age or Bronze Age tracks were in the first place.
But here's a thought: maybe the Peddars Way, or sections of it, is actually an updated and improved replacement for Norfolk's part of the Icknield Way. In other words, perhaps the Peddars Way does incorporate pieces of the much-older Icknield.
Another strand of thought in the book is that the Roman military and supply roads, with their all-weather surfaces, bridges and fords, clearly brought long-term benefit to the inhabitants of these islands, particularly during the Medieval period.
It is difficult to argue against that. And it is easy to forget, perhaps, that even today's road network is, by and large, a patchwork, or an accumulation, of many other older networks.
(The Secret History of the Roman Roads of Britain. By MC Bishop. Pen & Sword, 2014)
Sunday 16 November 2014
JUST VISITING
In terms of mammals, birds, creepy-crawlies and suchlike, which are native to Norfolk? More to the point, which are non-native, or visitors from abroad which have stayed on and made their homes here? The question is not social or political, but a matter of natural history.
The usual yardstick for 'native' is anything already here when the sea flooded in to form our islands. But how many mammal species have arrived since then? About 20 per cent, apparently, according to figures I was given in 1980. To take the matter further - and the numbers may have changed over the years - of the 52 species then recorded in Norfolk, introduced mammals accounted for ten, the greatest influences on this influx being arrivals by sea and ship, landowners and estates, pet shops and zoos. But that tells only part of the story. For example, the domestic cat and the house mouse are visitors, too.
One of the earliest introductions is the pheasant, originally Oriental and known in Britain before AD 1058. Another success story is the red-leg partridge, an introduction which now outnumbers the common partridge. In 1785 capercaillie were brought in from Norway by Thomas Fowell Buxton, of Northrepps and Cromer. The experiment failed, but by 1835 they were in Scotland in useful numbers.
The Canada goose, an Eastern Atlantic bird, was in London in 1675 and probably reached Norfolk via Wretham and Holkham parks where, in 1941, there was a flock of 200. They are now a familiar sight at Holkham and clearly see the place as an ancestral home. The Mandarin duck, first reported breeding in the Broads in 1977, is thought to have arrived about 1599. Woburn had a colony in 1900, and there were others at a Norfolk game farm.
As for the little owl, occasional birds were spotted in the 1800s, and in 1876 six youngsters were brought to Kimberley Hall. The project failed, and it was not until 1901 that the little owl finally settled in East Anglia. Similar attempts were made to establish the budgerigar (from Australia) in the wild, and they did breed near Downham Market and the west of Norwich in the 1970s, but by and large numbers were decimated by hard winters. Cetti's warblers arrived under their own steam, while various attempts were made to establish the ring-necked parakeet, most particularly at Northrepps. In the late 1970s several sightings were reported.
There have been various reports of wallabies over the years. Three pairs escaped from the Gurney zoo at Northrepps in the 1850s, and others appeared in the Peak District. Chinese water deer were brought to Woburn in the 1900s, and there were escapes from Woburn and Whipsnade during the 1940s. Muntjac were first recorded at Hickling, but it is not known when or from where they arrived. Fallow deer are said to have been introduced by the Romans, and red and roe deer, once extinct in the Brecks, were reintroduced by the sporting estates. Japanese sika deer arrived in the 1860s.
The black rat was largely ousted by the brown rat, which arrived in the 1890s, while excavations at Castle Acre suggested the beaver and the polecat/ferret were around in the 12th century. In the 1800s attempts were made to introduce the grey squirrel, but not until 1860/90 were large enough numbers released to start viable populations. In 1902 some 250 were released, and in 1934 they were introduced at Northrepps. The combined effect was to drive the red squirrel into retreat.
Coypu arrived at nutria farms in the 1920s and 1930s - in 1962 Norfolk had the largest population in the world when they peaked at about 200,000 - while mink came in at the same time. Not even the rabbit is thought to be native. As for the edible frog, it was introduced by the Romans, while a colony at Thetford was probably descended from introductions at Morton Hall. In 1837 some 200 frogs were brought from France, followed in 1841/42 by other Continental batches. They were found in the wild near Thetford in 1853.
In terms of mammals, birds, creepy-crawlies and suchlike, which are native to Norfolk? More to the point, which are non-native, or visitors from abroad which have stayed on and made their homes here? The question is not social or political, but a matter of natural history.
The usual yardstick for 'native' is anything already here when the sea flooded in to form our islands. But how many mammal species have arrived since then? About 20 per cent, apparently, according to figures I was given in 1980. To take the matter further - and the numbers may have changed over the years - of the 52 species then recorded in Norfolk, introduced mammals accounted for ten, the greatest influences on this influx being arrivals by sea and ship, landowners and estates, pet shops and zoos. But that tells only part of the story. For example, the domestic cat and the house mouse are visitors, too.
One of the earliest introductions is the pheasant, originally Oriental and known in Britain before AD 1058. Another success story is the red-leg partridge, an introduction which now outnumbers the common partridge. In 1785 capercaillie were brought in from Norway by Thomas Fowell Buxton, of Northrepps and Cromer. The experiment failed, but by 1835 they were in Scotland in useful numbers.
The Canada goose, an Eastern Atlantic bird, was in London in 1675 and probably reached Norfolk via Wretham and Holkham parks where, in 1941, there was a flock of 200. They are now a familiar sight at Holkham and clearly see the place as an ancestral home. The Mandarin duck, first reported breeding in the Broads in 1977, is thought to have arrived about 1599. Woburn had a colony in 1900, and there were others at a Norfolk game farm.
As for the little owl, occasional birds were spotted in the 1800s, and in 1876 six youngsters were brought to Kimberley Hall. The project failed, and it was not until 1901 that the little owl finally settled in East Anglia. Similar attempts were made to establish the budgerigar (from Australia) in the wild, and they did breed near Downham Market and the west of Norwich in the 1970s, but by and large numbers were decimated by hard winters. Cetti's warblers arrived under their own steam, while various attempts were made to establish the ring-necked parakeet, most particularly at Northrepps. In the late 1970s several sightings were reported.
There have been various reports of wallabies over the years. Three pairs escaped from the Gurney zoo at Northrepps in the 1850s, and others appeared in the Peak District. Chinese water deer were brought to Woburn in the 1900s, and there were escapes from Woburn and Whipsnade during the 1940s. Muntjac were first recorded at Hickling, but it is not known when or from where they arrived. Fallow deer are said to have been introduced by the Romans, and red and roe deer, once extinct in the Brecks, were reintroduced by the sporting estates. Japanese sika deer arrived in the 1860s.
The black rat was largely ousted by the brown rat, which arrived in the 1890s, while excavations at Castle Acre suggested the beaver and the polecat/ferret were around in the 12th century. In the 1800s attempts were made to introduce the grey squirrel, but not until 1860/90 were large enough numbers released to start viable populations. In 1902 some 250 were released, and in 1934 they were introduced at Northrepps. The combined effect was to drive the red squirrel into retreat.
Coypu arrived at nutria farms in the 1920s and 1930s - in 1962 Norfolk had the largest population in the world when they peaked at about 200,000 - while mink came in at the same time. Not even the rabbit is thought to be native. As for the edible frog, it was introduced by the Romans, while a colony at Thetford was probably descended from introductions at Morton Hall. In 1837 some 200 frogs were brought from France, followed in 1841/42 by other Continental batches. They were found in the wild near Thetford in 1853.
Thursday 13 November 2014
SELF SUFFICIENT?
On Friday mornings during the years immediately after the Second World War, when we were waiting for the school bus to take us to Spalding, it became the custom to stand outside the nearby waggon works and watch men putting iron 'tyres' on to the wheels of newly-made farm carts. There was a circular indentation in the concrete forecourt into which they placed a new wooden wheel, and then the heated and sometimes red-hot iron rim was hammered into place. Once done, water was poured into the hole, causing it to sizzle and steam and the rim to cool and contract and grip.
It was a thrilling sight - sometimes there were six brand new farm carts lined up outside, their freshly painted pale salmon-coloured liveries lined with black, drying in the sun - but in the late 1940s it was routine. What is more, there were two other waggon works in the town doing the same, or similar, work.
Looking back from a distance of sixty years it is plain our small town - Long Sutton, in south Lincolnshire - was self-sufficient in many things, except coal, and like many communities could pretty much look after itself. For example, in the market place, or close by, were two grocery stores (where everything was sliced or weighed on the spot and placed in blue paper bags ready for delivery by boys on bikes), two printing and newsagent shops, an ironmonger, two or more butchers, two barbers, a wool shop, two clothing shops, several greengrocers, three bakers, two sweet shops, a couple of blacksmiths, and a coal yard next to the railway station.
But it was Swapcote Corner which really fascinated me. This was a curved and somewhat ramshackle series of frontages which faced the main road and then tailed round into Swapcote Lane. There were four premises here, all long gone, at least two of them built of timber and corrugated zinc.
First and closest to the town was Mr Tasker, the cobbler, who not only repaired shoes and boots but actually made them, too. You could see him through the window hammering at his last when you walked by on the way into town, or when going home. Second was Jenkinson's garage, where some of my friends made extra pocket money by taking the family wireless accumulator to be re-charged. It was a source of income denied me as our wireless was plugged directly into the mains electricity, or rather, and as was the method then, into the main light plug.
Third was Mr Parrott, saddler and leatherworker. When the town's agricultural show was in the offing his workshop would be 'decorated' with lines of brand new saddles and sets of harness. And fourth was Mr Franks, who in the mornings was a postman, delivering mail far and wide on his bicycle, and in the afternoons, a tinsmith. He also sold paraffin for cookers. I used to watch him in his little shop tap-tap-tapping the shiny sheets of metal into saucepans and trays and kettles. He also repaired items which were clearly meant to last, because we still have and still occasionally use a baking tray which originally belonged to my parents and which he probably made sometimes in the 1940s.
The postman/tinsmith was in fact one of a well-known trio of Franks' business people in the town, another being a jeweller and the third a printer, which earned the three of them the nicknames of Tinny, Clocky and Inky.
Of course, I don't suppose the town really was self-sufficient, but at the time it certainly felt as though everything we actually needed was close to hand.
On Friday mornings during the years immediately after the Second World War, when we were waiting for the school bus to take us to Spalding, it became the custom to stand outside the nearby waggon works and watch men putting iron 'tyres' on to the wheels of newly-made farm carts. There was a circular indentation in the concrete forecourt into which they placed a new wooden wheel, and then the heated and sometimes red-hot iron rim was hammered into place. Once done, water was poured into the hole, causing it to sizzle and steam and the rim to cool and contract and grip.
It was a thrilling sight - sometimes there were six brand new farm carts lined up outside, their freshly painted pale salmon-coloured liveries lined with black, drying in the sun - but in the late 1940s it was routine. What is more, there were two other waggon works in the town doing the same, or similar, work.
Looking back from a distance of sixty years it is plain our small town - Long Sutton, in south Lincolnshire - was self-sufficient in many things, except coal, and like many communities could pretty much look after itself. For example, in the market place, or close by, were two grocery stores (where everything was sliced or weighed on the spot and placed in blue paper bags ready for delivery by boys on bikes), two printing and newsagent shops, an ironmonger, two or more butchers, two barbers, a wool shop, two clothing shops, several greengrocers, three bakers, two sweet shops, a couple of blacksmiths, and a coal yard next to the railway station.
But it was Swapcote Corner which really fascinated me. This was a curved and somewhat ramshackle series of frontages which faced the main road and then tailed round into Swapcote Lane. There were four premises here, all long gone, at least two of them built of timber and corrugated zinc.
First and closest to the town was Mr Tasker, the cobbler, who not only repaired shoes and boots but actually made them, too. You could see him through the window hammering at his last when you walked by on the way into town, or when going home. Second was Jenkinson's garage, where some of my friends made extra pocket money by taking the family wireless accumulator to be re-charged. It was a source of income denied me as our wireless was plugged directly into the mains electricity, or rather, and as was the method then, into the main light plug.
Third was Mr Parrott, saddler and leatherworker. When the town's agricultural show was in the offing his workshop would be 'decorated' with lines of brand new saddles and sets of harness. And fourth was Mr Franks, who in the mornings was a postman, delivering mail far and wide on his bicycle, and in the afternoons, a tinsmith. He also sold paraffin for cookers. I used to watch him in his little shop tap-tap-tapping the shiny sheets of metal into saucepans and trays and kettles. He also repaired items which were clearly meant to last, because we still have and still occasionally use a baking tray which originally belonged to my parents and which he probably made sometimes in the 1940s.
The postman/tinsmith was in fact one of a well-known trio of Franks' business people in the town, another being a jeweller and the third a printer, which earned the three of them the nicknames of Tinny, Clocky and Inky.
Of course, I don't suppose the town really was self-sufficient, but at the time it certainly felt as though everything we actually needed was close to hand.
Sunday 9 November 2014
JOHN MONEY
I first encountered tales of John Money during a visit to the grassy slopes and high elevations of the American War of Independence battlefield at Saratoga. Money, from Norfolk, UK, was an officer in General Burgoyne's ill-fated army which finally surrendered to American forces in October, 1777. He and his companions then spent the next three years in captivity. But there was much more to Mr Money than this.
Major John Money was born in 1740, the son of a tenant farmer at Trowse, near Norwich. John eventually joined the Norfolk Militia and then the 6th Eniskillen Dragoons, while during the Seven Years' War he was with Elliot's Light Horse and present at the battle of Tillinghausen. By 1771 he had transferred to the 9th (Norfolk) Regiment of Foot, where he was eventually promoted to the position of Deputy Assistant Quarter-Master-General.
Returning to England in 1781 following his US captivity, he retired from the army as a major on half-pay in 1784 and, back at Trowse, built a mansion he named Crown Point - better known today as Whitlingham Hall - close to the location of his father's former farm. Now in his mid-forties, Money could have retired to become a country gentleman. Instead, he evidently craved further excitement, and in the end turned to the latest innovation - ballooning.
Money's first flight took place in June, 1785, from Tottenham Court Road, in London. With two other companions 'in the basket' this so-called 'British balloon' took off, but after losing gas it came down near Abridge in Essex. Later, it took off again, this time with only two crew, including Money, and finally descended near Maldon, having covered 40 miles.
A month later Major Money was at it again, this time flying from Quantrell's Gardens in Norwich, watched by several thousand spectators. The plan was that it would fly with a crew of three, but because of difficulties with the inflation the passengers had to be reduced to one - Money - who took off and promptly discovered there was a problem with the gas release valve.
Unable to make landfall, Money and the balloon drifted out to sea, eventually coming down in the early evening about 20 miles off Southwold. Various boats set off in the dark to find him, and a Dutch boat saw him but did not stop. He was in the water for five hours until at about 11.30pm he was finally rescued by a Harwich cutter. Apparently none the worse for his adventures, he was taken to Lowestoft, feted as a celebrity and given grog. Then he took a post-chaise back to Crown Point.
The episode made Money famous, but his adventures were still not over. Returning to military life, he fought for Belgium against the Austrians, was present in Paris during the French Revolution - leaving shortly before the king was executed - and maintained an interest in the military possibilities of ballooning. In 1806 he addressed a letter to the Secretary of State for War on the defence of London against a possible French invasion.
John Money died in 1817, aged 77. He was a significant pioneer of early flying, the first soldier to fly, a military theorist and adventurer, an important figure on the local social scene, and probably the first aeronaut to be rescued at sea. He was buried at St Andrew's church, Trowse.
(Flying Lives With a Norfolk Theme, by Peter B Gunn. Published, Peter Gunn, 2010)
I first encountered tales of John Money during a visit to the grassy slopes and high elevations of the American War of Independence battlefield at Saratoga. Money, from Norfolk, UK, was an officer in General Burgoyne's ill-fated army which finally surrendered to American forces in October, 1777. He and his companions then spent the next three years in captivity. But there was much more to Mr Money than this.
Major John Money was born in 1740, the son of a tenant farmer at Trowse, near Norwich. John eventually joined the Norfolk Militia and then the 6th Eniskillen Dragoons, while during the Seven Years' War he was with Elliot's Light Horse and present at the battle of Tillinghausen. By 1771 he had transferred to the 9th (Norfolk) Regiment of Foot, where he was eventually promoted to the position of Deputy Assistant Quarter-Master-General.
Returning to England in 1781 following his US captivity, he retired from the army as a major on half-pay in 1784 and, back at Trowse, built a mansion he named Crown Point - better known today as Whitlingham Hall - close to the location of his father's former farm. Now in his mid-forties, Money could have retired to become a country gentleman. Instead, he evidently craved further excitement, and in the end turned to the latest innovation - ballooning.
Money's first flight took place in June, 1785, from Tottenham Court Road, in London. With two other companions 'in the basket' this so-called 'British balloon' took off, but after losing gas it came down near Abridge in Essex. Later, it took off again, this time with only two crew, including Money, and finally descended near Maldon, having covered 40 miles.
A month later Major Money was at it again, this time flying from Quantrell's Gardens in Norwich, watched by several thousand spectators. The plan was that it would fly with a crew of three, but because of difficulties with the inflation the passengers had to be reduced to one - Money - who took off and promptly discovered there was a problem with the gas release valve.
Unable to make landfall, Money and the balloon drifted out to sea, eventually coming down in the early evening about 20 miles off Southwold. Various boats set off in the dark to find him, and a Dutch boat saw him but did not stop. He was in the water for five hours until at about 11.30pm he was finally rescued by a Harwich cutter. Apparently none the worse for his adventures, he was taken to Lowestoft, feted as a celebrity and given grog. Then he took a post-chaise back to Crown Point.
The episode made Money famous, but his adventures were still not over. Returning to military life, he fought for Belgium against the Austrians, was present in Paris during the French Revolution - leaving shortly before the king was executed - and maintained an interest in the military possibilities of ballooning. In 1806 he addressed a letter to the Secretary of State for War on the defence of London against a possible French invasion.
John Money died in 1817, aged 77. He was a significant pioneer of early flying, the first soldier to fly, a military theorist and adventurer, an important figure on the local social scene, and probably the first aeronaut to be rescued at sea. He was buried at St Andrew's church, Trowse.
(Flying Lives With a Norfolk Theme, by Peter B Gunn. Published, Peter Gunn, 2010)
Wednesday 5 November 2014
DROVING DAYS
In the decades before a rapid growth of the railway system changed the face of Britain forever, and for some decades afterwards, long-distance cattle droving was an everyday occurrence. One of the main channels of supply to the English market - though by no means the only one - led from Scotland, where hardy black Galloway cattle flourished, all the way south to Norfolk and the St Faith's selling fair, and then to London's Smithfield market, quite often following rest and fattening on the Norfolk/Suffolk marshes.
In the late 1990s, while researching a novel (Hudson's Drove - see publications list), I travelled to Scotland by car and then turned south and followed one of these droving routes back to Norfolk.
Traces of this once vast trade are hard to find nowadays, but bits and pieces do still survive: folklore stories; banknotes, devised so that drovers did not need to carry coins; pubs called The Black Bull, or something similar; small items, such as iron shoes, at various local museums; and so on. And the occasional word. Stance, for example, which meant an overnight stopping place (and in Dumfries, at least, now means a bus stop).
As for these lingering stories, I particularly like the one of the Norfolk drover who, having reached Smithfield and being in receipt of his money, regularly ordered his dog to return to Norwich, alone and using its own devices. The owner, of course, had previously made monetary arrangements for it to be fed and rested at various hostelries along the way.
I went by car to Dumfries and then drove north through Thornhill towards the Lowther Hills, once one of the great trysting or meeting places of the herds. Here, the deals were done, contracts signed, and droves assembled. Then the vast herds would set off for Norfolk accompanied by four or five drovers using several possible routes, most usually Bowness (though this involved a dangerous crossing of the Solway Firth at low water), or more often, one suspects, Gretna and Carlisle. My own route took me through Lazonby and Bowes, Catterick, Wetherby and Retford, and on to Bourne, where the drovers must have faced yet another choice.
To get to Wisbech for the crossing of the river Nene they could either follow the inland route across the marshy fenlands, or turn east towards Spalding and Long Sutton. However, unless they turned south at Long Sutton towards Wisbech this would also have entailed another dangerous estuary crossing, this time at the old Cross Keys terminal close by what is now Sutton Bridge.
I'm sure this Cross Keys route into Norfolk was tried by some of the drovers, but other than the names of a couple of pubs - The Bull, for example - or Dockings Holt, which may or may not have been a cattle holding area, I have never come across any reference to my home town, Long Sutton, having any regular role in the long-distance trade. My guess, for what it is worth, is that the herds stuck largely to the inland fen route and crossed the Nene at Wisbech.
Once over the Nene the drovers would then move into Norfolk at Setch (or Setchy) before beginning the final lap of their journey to St Faith's Fair, held not far from Norwich. Here the cattle would be sorted and sold and later rested before making their last journey, to London's Smithfield market.
The spread of the rail network killed off the long-distance trade, though droving on a smaller scale continued at local levels until many of the old livestock markets faded away and the cattle were carted by lorry. Nevertheless, the Scotland-Norfolk droves must have been a memorable sight, while the head drovers, despite their sometimes colourful reputations, were very largely men of honour. Indeed, they had to be as they were trusted, for weeks on end, with stock worth a very great deal of money.
In the decades before a rapid growth of the railway system changed the face of Britain forever, and for some decades afterwards, long-distance cattle droving was an everyday occurrence. One of the main channels of supply to the English market - though by no means the only one - led from Scotland, where hardy black Galloway cattle flourished, all the way south to Norfolk and the St Faith's selling fair, and then to London's Smithfield market, quite often following rest and fattening on the Norfolk/Suffolk marshes.
In the late 1990s, while researching a novel (Hudson's Drove - see publications list), I travelled to Scotland by car and then turned south and followed one of these droving routes back to Norfolk.
Traces of this once vast trade are hard to find nowadays, but bits and pieces do still survive: folklore stories; banknotes, devised so that drovers did not need to carry coins; pubs called The Black Bull, or something similar; small items, such as iron shoes, at various local museums; and so on. And the occasional word. Stance, for example, which meant an overnight stopping place (and in Dumfries, at least, now means a bus stop).
As for these lingering stories, I particularly like the one of the Norfolk drover who, having reached Smithfield and being in receipt of his money, regularly ordered his dog to return to Norwich, alone and using its own devices. The owner, of course, had previously made monetary arrangements for it to be fed and rested at various hostelries along the way.
I went by car to Dumfries and then drove north through Thornhill towards the Lowther Hills, once one of the great trysting or meeting places of the herds. Here, the deals were done, contracts signed, and droves assembled. Then the vast herds would set off for Norfolk accompanied by four or five drovers using several possible routes, most usually Bowness (though this involved a dangerous crossing of the Solway Firth at low water), or more often, one suspects, Gretna and Carlisle. My own route took me through Lazonby and Bowes, Catterick, Wetherby and Retford, and on to Bourne, where the drovers must have faced yet another choice.
To get to Wisbech for the crossing of the river Nene they could either follow the inland route across the marshy fenlands, or turn east towards Spalding and Long Sutton. However, unless they turned south at Long Sutton towards Wisbech this would also have entailed another dangerous estuary crossing, this time at the old Cross Keys terminal close by what is now Sutton Bridge.
I'm sure this Cross Keys route into Norfolk was tried by some of the drovers, but other than the names of a couple of pubs - The Bull, for example - or Dockings Holt, which may or may not have been a cattle holding area, I have never come across any reference to my home town, Long Sutton, having any regular role in the long-distance trade. My guess, for what it is worth, is that the herds stuck largely to the inland fen route and crossed the Nene at Wisbech.
Once over the Nene the drovers would then move into Norfolk at Setch (or Setchy) before beginning the final lap of their journey to St Faith's Fair, held not far from Norwich. Here the cattle would be sorted and sold and later rested before making their last journey, to London's Smithfield market.
The spread of the rail network killed off the long-distance trade, though droving on a smaller scale continued at local levels until many of the old livestock markets faded away and the cattle were carted by lorry. Nevertheless, the Scotland-Norfolk droves must have been a memorable sight, while the head drovers, despite their sometimes colourful reputations, were very largely men of honour. Indeed, they had to be as they were trusted, for weeks on end, with stock worth a very great deal of money.
Sunday 2 November 2014
THE BRECKLANDS
I still recall the day I fell in love with the Brecklands. It was in 1973/74, and some months after I had changed jobs and become a newspaper columnist instead of a soccer scribe, and had arranged to meet someone who lived in a village on the edge of the forest. I drove into the Brecks, an area I did not know at all, and finding there was time to spare, stopped the car in a layby to consult a map.
When I glanced up again it was as though I was surrounded by light. An early light snowfall had dusted the ranks of conifer belts which lined the verges on both sides, and shafts of sunlight speared through gaps in the trees, adding a crystalline sheen to the snow on the ground, and on the trees, all of it emanating from a brilliant pale blue and Spring-like sky.
From that very first moment, that first connection, I was hooked and constantly lured back. The very thought of an excursion into the racks and rides of the plantations would set my pulse racing, and probably still does even though I now live much further away from the area than I did then.
And so over the years we have walked and camped and picknicked and holidayed in the Brecks, and the thrill has always been the same. Grassy, sunlit paths, the quietness and resinous smell of the plantations, and distant perspectives of dusty-dry fields surrounded by silhouetted lines of gnarled Scots pines, twisted and leaning like queues of tottering ancient folk.
Even its modern history is fascinating. In 1677 the diarist John Evelyn, visiting Euston Hall, wrote of the soil that it was dry, barren and 'miserably' sandy. And almost a century later, William Gilpin, travelling the area in 1769, commented that 'nothing was to be seen on either side but sand and scattered gravel without the least vegetation: a mere African desert.' Sand there certainly was. For a time, Santon Downham was known as Sandy Downham, and for good reason.
Then in the 18th and 19th centuries tracts of heathland were brought into cultivation, and following a report by the agricultural writer Arthur Young, for the Board of Agriculture, woods and shelter belts and lines of trees began to be planted to divide the fields, stabilise the soils, and provide cover for game birds. Later still, large areas were enclosed, the tree of choice being the Scots pine. Then, shortly after the First World War, the Forestry Commission acquired lots of cheap land hereabouts and began tree planting with such success that by 1935 about 55,000 acres had been covered.
It should be said, of course, that many people still do not like these sombre plantations, and it is true they can be interpreted as regimented and sterile. But things have changed much over the past few decades, and the nature of the forests has evolved.There is much more deciduous planting than there used to be, bringing a softening to the hitherto hard lines of the blocks of conifers, and a greater public freedom now that most of the No Entry signs are part of its historical past.
Frankly, I love the plantations, the smell of pine, the dusty paths and tracks, the wild strawberries, rosebay willow-herb and brilliant yellow gorse, the darting passage and fleeting glimpses of deer, patches of sunlight, birds, and sometimes, on hot days, a profound cathedral-like stillness.
The Brecklands are riddled with history, social, military, and archaeological, layers of human activity which have added to, rather than detracted from, this marvellous and often under-appreciated area.
I still recall the day I fell in love with the Brecklands. It was in 1973/74, and some months after I had changed jobs and become a newspaper columnist instead of a soccer scribe, and had arranged to meet someone who lived in a village on the edge of the forest. I drove into the Brecks, an area I did not know at all, and finding there was time to spare, stopped the car in a layby to consult a map.
When I glanced up again it was as though I was surrounded by light. An early light snowfall had dusted the ranks of conifer belts which lined the verges on both sides, and shafts of sunlight speared through gaps in the trees, adding a crystalline sheen to the snow on the ground, and on the trees, all of it emanating from a brilliant pale blue and Spring-like sky.
From that very first moment, that first connection, I was hooked and constantly lured back. The very thought of an excursion into the racks and rides of the plantations would set my pulse racing, and probably still does even though I now live much further away from the area than I did then.
And so over the years we have walked and camped and picknicked and holidayed in the Brecks, and the thrill has always been the same. Grassy, sunlit paths, the quietness and resinous smell of the plantations, and distant perspectives of dusty-dry fields surrounded by silhouetted lines of gnarled Scots pines, twisted and leaning like queues of tottering ancient folk.
Even its modern history is fascinating. In 1677 the diarist John Evelyn, visiting Euston Hall, wrote of the soil that it was dry, barren and 'miserably' sandy. And almost a century later, William Gilpin, travelling the area in 1769, commented that 'nothing was to be seen on either side but sand and scattered gravel without the least vegetation: a mere African desert.' Sand there certainly was. For a time, Santon Downham was known as Sandy Downham, and for good reason.
Then in the 18th and 19th centuries tracts of heathland were brought into cultivation, and following a report by the agricultural writer Arthur Young, for the Board of Agriculture, woods and shelter belts and lines of trees began to be planted to divide the fields, stabilise the soils, and provide cover for game birds. Later still, large areas were enclosed, the tree of choice being the Scots pine. Then, shortly after the First World War, the Forestry Commission acquired lots of cheap land hereabouts and began tree planting with such success that by 1935 about 55,000 acres had been covered.
It should be said, of course, that many people still do not like these sombre plantations, and it is true they can be interpreted as regimented and sterile. But things have changed much over the past few decades, and the nature of the forests has evolved.There is much more deciduous planting than there used to be, bringing a softening to the hitherto hard lines of the blocks of conifers, and a greater public freedom now that most of the No Entry signs are part of its historical past.
Frankly, I love the plantations, the smell of pine, the dusty paths and tracks, the wild strawberries, rosebay willow-herb and brilliant yellow gorse, the darting passage and fleeting glimpses of deer, patches of sunlight, birds, and sometimes, on hot days, a profound cathedral-like stillness.
The Brecklands are riddled with history, social, military, and archaeological, layers of human activity which have added to, rather than detracted from, this marvellous and often under-appreciated area.
Monday 27 October 2014
AIRMAN CLARENCE
In the 1970s and early 1980s, veterans of the American 8th Air Force were making nostalgic return trips to Norfolk and Suffolk, and to their War-time haunts, on a four-yearly cycle. Then I realised that one trip would actually mark the 30th anniversary of the initial arrival of the Yanks, and I asked the organisers if they had anyone who was coming over for the first time since the War, and if so, if I might meet them. In the end the organisers sent the details of Clarence H, then a DuPont employee living in Hixson, Chattanooga, Tennessee, who was destined to become a family friend.
During the War he had been a radio op and waist-gunner on B-24 Liberator Lil Snooks, based with the 446th - the Bungay Buckeroos - at Flixton. Now he came striding out of Norwich's Post House hotel, smiling, smartly dressed, hair shaved to a thin fuzz, hand outstretched, apprehensive, but keen to see old friends and visit remembered places.
As we drove to Flixton he told me he flew missions to Essen, Brunswick, Giessen, Kiel, Hamburg, Bremen, Mannheim and Ludwigshaven, among others, being shot up on several occasions but finishing largely unscathed after 30 raids. Clarence was born in 1922, so he was in his early 20s then. If he was nervous at the time, well, now he was excited, and words poured out of him. 'Saw Warren from Uniontown last night. Hadn't seen him in 29 years . . . I'd love to see Dave again. He used to cycle round the base to fetch the laundry . . . And I want photos of John's grave at Cambridge to take to his wife . . .' And so on.
As we got closer to Bungay he began to recognise things, a distinctive house chimney, a particular farm barn, a hall they used as a social club. Then we turned off the B1062 and stopped in the lane beside the church, where he carefully wrote his name and squadron in the visitors' book. At Flixton Grange, the former Aero Club was full of sacks of wheat and the old sports and social rooms piled with equipment. We searched for names they had scribbled on the walls, but couldn't find any. But he did locate the old fireplace. 'We used to drink our Cokes and buy our cigarettes here,' he explained.
Then he recalled a games master at a Bungay school who used to blow his whistle during rugby games as the B-24s limped home from a daylight raid, and the boys would form up on the pitch in a V-for-Victory shape as the battered planes roared overhead. The gesture had made a very deep impression on him.
Later, we walked down a tree-lined lane to the old barracks area where the hard surface was now covered by moss, and roadways branched off into dense foliage. Grasses and briars dragged at our trousers, and 30-year-old poplars and scycamores towered overhead. But Clarence knew instinctively where his hut had been, and he plunged into the undergrowth. And there was the remains of a blast shelter, where he once used to prop his bike, and under a carpet of moss and clumps of weed were the foundations of his old billet. He clawed through the greenery and stood once again where his bedspace had been.
Then we drove carefully along the remains of runway 230. 'Beachball, they'd say. This is Beachball. You're clear to land runway two-three,' and I'm sure he could hear the roar of aero engines again. A while later he found the exact spot on a hardpad where Lil Snooks used to park, and the nearby patch of grass where the exhausted crew used to clamber out and collapse. 'Been sick there many times,' he said.
Later still, at Flixton aviation museum, he was presented with a couple of fragments including a fire-damaged cap badge, salvaged some years ago from a crash site at Mendham where a couple of his buddies died. That was a tearful moment. And there was another when he got back to Norwich, when a group of surviving buddies, grizzled veterans all, gathered for tea and cakes in the lounge of the old Castle Hotel, and when some of them sat in a circle and took it in turns to hold a twisted cap badge.
In the 1970s and early 1980s, veterans of the American 8th Air Force were making nostalgic return trips to Norfolk and Suffolk, and to their War-time haunts, on a four-yearly cycle. Then I realised that one trip would actually mark the 30th anniversary of the initial arrival of the Yanks, and I asked the organisers if they had anyone who was coming over for the first time since the War, and if so, if I might meet them. In the end the organisers sent the details of Clarence H, then a DuPont employee living in Hixson, Chattanooga, Tennessee, who was destined to become a family friend.
During the War he had been a radio op and waist-gunner on B-24 Liberator Lil Snooks, based with the 446th - the Bungay Buckeroos - at Flixton. Now he came striding out of Norwich's Post House hotel, smiling, smartly dressed, hair shaved to a thin fuzz, hand outstretched, apprehensive, but keen to see old friends and visit remembered places.
As we drove to Flixton he told me he flew missions to Essen, Brunswick, Giessen, Kiel, Hamburg, Bremen, Mannheim and Ludwigshaven, among others, being shot up on several occasions but finishing largely unscathed after 30 raids. Clarence was born in 1922, so he was in his early 20s then. If he was nervous at the time, well, now he was excited, and words poured out of him. 'Saw Warren from Uniontown last night. Hadn't seen him in 29 years . . . I'd love to see Dave again. He used to cycle round the base to fetch the laundry . . . And I want photos of John's grave at Cambridge to take to his wife . . .' And so on.
As we got closer to Bungay he began to recognise things, a distinctive house chimney, a particular farm barn, a hall they used as a social club. Then we turned off the B1062 and stopped in the lane beside the church, where he carefully wrote his name and squadron in the visitors' book. At Flixton Grange, the former Aero Club was full of sacks of wheat and the old sports and social rooms piled with equipment. We searched for names they had scribbled on the walls, but couldn't find any. But he did locate the old fireplace. 'We used to drink our Cokes and buy our cigarettes here,' he explained.
Then he recalled a games master at a Bungay school who used to blow his whistle during rugby games as the B-24s limped home from a daylight raid, and the boys would form up on the pitch in a V-for-Victory shape as the battered planes roared overhead. The gesture had made a very deep impression on him.
Later, we walked down a tree-lined lane to the old barracks area where the hard surface was now covered by moss, and roadways branched off into dense foliage. Grasses and briars dragged at our trousers, and 30-year-old poplars and scycamores towered overhead. But Clarence knew instinctively where his hut had been, and he plunged into the undergrowth. And there was the remains of a blast shelter, where he once used to prop his bike, and under a carpet of moss and clumps of weed were the foundations of his old billet. He clawed through the greenery and stood once again where his bedspace had been.
Then we drove carefully along the remains of runway 230. 'Beachball, they'd say. This is Beachball. You're clear to land runway two-three,' and I'm sure he could hear the roar of aero engines again. A while later he found the exact spot on a hardpad where Lil Snooks used to park, and the nearby patch of grass where the exhausted crew used to clamber out and collapse. 'Been sick there many times,' he said.
Later still, at Flixton aviation museum, he was presented with a couple of fragments including a fire-damaged cap badge, salvaged some years ago from a crash site at Mendham where a couple of his buddies died. That was a tearful moment. And there was another when he got back to Norwich, when a group of surviving buddies, grizzled veterans all, gathered for tea and cakes in the lounge of the old Castle Hotel, and when some of them sat in a circle and took it in turns to hold a twisted cap badge.
Friday 24 October 2014
DOREEN'S WAR
You don't see Doreen Wallace mentioned on the nation's literary pages these days, which is a pity because there was a time when she was hardly off them. A prolific writer, political agitator, farmer and gardener, she built a popular literary career especially from the 1930s until well into the 1970s, and indeed until a few years before her death in 1989.
Born in Cumberland in 1897, Doreen was educated at Malvern and Somerville College, Oxford, and in 1922 married Roland Rash, a farmer of Wortham, in Suffolk. It was here, in Suffolk, that she began to add the cadences and eccentricities of East Anglia to her palette of eperiences.
Her novels were good sellers in their day, and they included Barnham Rectory, published in 1934, Going to Sea, The Time of Wild Roses, Green Acres - produced during the Second World War - and later titles including Willow Farm, Sons of Gentlemen, Woman With a Mirror; and her last, in 1976, Landscape With Figures. She also wrote on other subjects, including gardening and the landscape, and was prolific in the short story field.
In 1975 Collins published several of her short stories under the collective title of Changes and Chances, and book in hand I went to Diss to meet her. She autographed it for me. I still have it, and it says, 'Sincerely Yours,' written in Biro, which now feels oddly out of kilter with her and her time, because I suppose I thought she would use a fountain pen. But mainly it is my memory of her as a charming, bespectacled lady which remains, because she deliberately played down the grit and sparkiness for which she was known in her earlier years.
Doreen Rash was a battler. And the battlefield? The tithe system, a tax which was seen to be crippling farmers particularly during the difficult agricultural depression in the 1930s.
The Tithe Wars, as they became known, had a long history but they came to a head in the 1930s. High profile cases of bankrupts and protests made national headlines. Kent, with hop tithes of up to £1 per acre, formed a tithepayers' defence association, and Suffolk, with an average tithe of seven shillings per acre, was next to organise, followed rapidly by Norfolk and Essex. By 1931, nearly fifty organisations in England and Wales were linked under one national umbrella.
The bitterness ran deep. In 1934, and following non-payment, a bailiff and his men stripped Hall Farm, near Potter Heigham, in Norfolk, seizing futniture and cattle. Then in 1947 AG Mobbs, of Oulton Broad, a leading tithe critic, refused to pay £1 14s 2d. However, the judge at Lowestoft County Court declined to send him to prison, saying, 'There is nothing more foolish than making a martyr.'
As for Doreen and Roland Rash, the bailiffs arrived at Wortham in 1934, putting the farm under siege for six weeks. In 1935 a monument was erected nearby commemorating 'The Tithe War. 134 pigs and 15 cattle seized for the tithe. February 22nd, 1934.' The Rash family lost that particular battle, and they lost again in 1939 when Doreen and Roland were declared bankrupt and the contents of their home were put up for auction on the front lawn at Wortham. On the other hand, you could say that they, and AG Mobbs and others, actually carried the day, because tithes were finally abolished in 1977.
Doreen, who was carried shoulder-high off the lawn by her supporters on that momentous day all those years before, concentrated once again on her writing. And she did so successfully, so you could say she won several major battles.
(Changes and Chances, by Doreen Wallace. Collins, 1975)
You don't see Doreen Wallace mentioned on the nation's literary pages these days, which is a pity because there was a time when she was hardly off them. A prolific writer, political agitator, farmer and gardener, she built a popular literary career especially from the 1930s until well into the 1970s, and indeed until a few years before her death in 1989.
Born in Cumberland in 1897, Doreen was educated at Malvern and Somerville College, Oxford, and in 1922 married Roland Rash, a farmer of Wortham, in Suffolk. It was here, in Suffolk, that she began to add the cadences and eccentricities of East Anglia to her palette of eperiences.
Her novels were good sellers in their day, and they included Barnham Rectory, published in 1934, Going to Sea, The Time of Wild Roses, Green Acres - produced during the Second World War - and later titles including Willow Farm, Sons of Gentlemen, Woman With a Mirror; and her last, in 1976, Landscape With Figures. She also wrote on other subjects, including gardening and the landscape, and was prolific in the short story field.
In 1975 Collins published several of her short stories under the collective title of Changes and Chances, and book in hand I went to Diss to meet her. She autographed it for me. I still have it, and it says, 'Sincerely Yours,' written in Biro, which now feels oddly out of kilter with her and her time, because I suppose I thought she would use a fountain pen. But mainly it is my memory of her as a charming, bespectacled lady which remains, because she deliberately played down the grit and sparkiness for which she was known in her earlier years.
Doreen Rash was a battler. And the battlefield? The tithe system, a tax which was seen to be crippling farmers particularly during the difficult agricultural depression in the 1930s.
The Tithe Wars, as they became known, had a long history but they came to a head in the 1930s. High profile cases of bankrupts and protests made national headlines. Kent, with hop tithes of up to £1 per acre, formed a tithepayers' defence association, and Suffolk, with an average tithe of seven shillings per acre, was next to organise, followed rapidly by Norfolk and Essex. By 1931, nearly fifty organisations in England and Wales were linked under one national umbrella.
The bitterness ran deep. In 1934, and following non-payment, a bailiff and his men stripped Hall Farm, near Potter Heigham, in Norfolk, seizing futniture and cattle. Then in 1947 AG Mobbs, of Oulton Broad, a leading tithe critic, refused to pay £1 14s 2d. However, the judge at Lowestoft County Court declined to send him to prison, saying, 'There is nothing more foolish than making a martyr.'
As for Doreen and Roland Rash, the bailiffs arrived at Wortham in 1934, putting the farm under siege for six weeks. In 1935 a monument was erected nearby commemorating 'The Tithe War. 134 pigs and 15 cattle seized for the tithe. February 22nd, 1934.' The Rash family lost that particular battle, and they lost again in 1939 when Doreen and Roland were declared bankrupt and the contents of their home were put up for auction on the front lawn at Wortham. On the other hand, you could say that they, and AG Mobbs and others, actually carried the day, because tithes were finally abolished in 1977.
Doreen, who was carried shoulder-high off the lawn by her supporters on that momentous day all those years before, concentrated once again on her writing. And she did so successfully, so you could say she won several major battles.
(Changes and Chances, by Doreen Wallace. Collins, 1975)
Tuesday 21 October 2014
WRITING ON THE WALL
Two or three decades have gone by since I called in at Salthouse church, on Norfolk's north coast, to take a look at the maritime graffiti incised on the stonework and - I seem to remember - on the backs of some of the pews. Ships, mainly, if memory serves me; and moreover, the sort of ships a choirboy of the time might have seen had he stood on the hill beside the church and gazed out to the sea.
Puzzles remained, though. Why were the drawings done? The naughty choirboy thing doesn't really stand up because there were so many of them, and they must have been visually apparent to everyone. Also, some of them would have taken a long time to do. So, were they 'good luck' symbols, a local way of blessing a ship and its crew, perhaps prior to a voyage? And the biggest question of all: how old were they?
The good news is that the Norfolk Medieval Graffiti Survey has been busy carrying out research which will ultimately involve examining every Medieval church in the county. And they have already found plenty, with examples being spread around over 30 different church of the 50 or so investigated so far, including not only Salthouse but also Blakeney, Cley, Wiveton, Colkirk, Binham Priory, Litcham and King's Lynn.
And not always scratched ships, either, but crosses, words, names, patterns and symbols, even the crudely carved outline of a hand and a grotescue head.
Nor were these drawings necessarily made by naughty children or other miscreants, for the survey has also shown that the surviving images could have been cut by a commoner, priest or nobleman, man, woman or child. They evidently crossed the boundaries of class, and there seems little doubt that, taken as a whole, they reflect the hopes, fears and humour of Medieval parish inhabitants.
Some of the most interesting are to be found in the four churches of Blakeney, Wiveton, Cley and Salthouse, presenting the four parishes that surrounded the mouth of the river Glaven and the big, bustling port that developed there during the Middle Ages, which handled not only herring and cod, but also pilgrims heading for and away from Walsingham.
Indeed, these four churches display vast quantities of graffiti from the Medieval and post-Medieval periods, including merchants' marks, illuminated capitals, prayers and symbols. At Blakeney, for example, more than 30 ships' images have been found.
The subject goes further than this, however, for another major surprise was uncovered at Binham Priory, where blueprints for the master mason's design for a West Front had been carefully and accurately etched into the walls.
And here's another thing. By 2014 the survey had expanded its field of research to take in inscriptions and drawings from churches in Suffolk, for the two counties, between them, have over 1,100 Medieval churches, many of them of similar architectural style. What the survey has already shown is that there are county differences in graffiti subject matter and distribution. Indeed, it seems that windmills and astrological symbols are common Suffolk, while Norfolk has more curses.
I'm still trying to work that one out.
(Current Archaeology, issue 256, July 2011; and issue 291, June 2014)
Two or three decades have gone by since I called in at Salthouse church, on Norfolk's north coast, to take a look at the maritime graffiti incised on the stonework and - I seem to remember - on the backs of some of the pews. Ships, mainly, if memory serves me; and moreover, the sort of ships a choirboy of the time might have seen had he stood on the hill beside the church and gazed out to the sea.
Puzzles remained, though. Why were the drawings done? The naughty choirboy thing doesn't really stand up because there were so many of them, and they must have been visually apparent to everyone. Also, some of them would have taken a long time to do. So, were they 'good luck' symbols, a local way of blessing a ship and its crew, perhaps prior to a voyage? And the biggest question of all: how old were they?
The good news is that the Norfolk Medieval Graffiti Survey has been busy carrying out research which will ultimately involve examining every Medieval church in the county. And they have already found plenty, with examples being spread around over 30 different church of the 50 or so investigated so far, including not only Salthouse but also Blakeney, Cley, Wiveton, Colkirk, Binham Priory, Litcham and King's Lynn.
And not always scratched ships, either, but crosses, words, names, patterns and symbols, even the crudely carved outline of a hand and a grotescue head.
Nor were these drawings necessarily made by naughty children or other miscreants, for the survey has also shown that the surviving images could have been cut by a commoner, priest or nobleman, man, woman or child. They evidently crossed the boundaries of class, and there seems little doubt that, taken as a whole, they reflect the hopes, fears and humour of Medieval parish inhabitants.
Some of the most interesting are to be found in the four churches of Blakeney, Wiveton, Cley and Salthouse, presenting the four parishes that surrounded the mouth of the river Glaven and the big, bustling port that developed there during the Middle Ages, which handled not only herring and cod, but also pilgrims heading for and away from Walsingham.
Indeed, these four churches display vast quantities of graffiti from the Medieval and post-Medieval periods, including merchants' marks, illuminated capitals, prayers and symbols. At Blakeney, for example, more than 30 ships' images have been found.
The subject goes further than this, however, for another major surprise was uncovered at Binham Priory, where blueprints for the master mason's design for a West Front had been carefully and accurately etched into the walls.
And here's another thing. By 2014 the survey had expanded its field of research to take in inscriptions and drawings from churches in Suffolk, for the two counties, between them, have over 1,100 Medieval churches, many of them of similar architectural style. What the survey has already shown is that there are county differences in graffiti subject matter and distribution. Indeed, it seems that windmills and astrological symbols are common Suffolk, while Norfolk has more curses.
I'm still trying to work that one out.
(Current Archaeology, issue 256, July 2011; and issue 291, June 2014)
Friday 17 October 2014
THE HOLLER
It began in the flick of an eye. In 1982, and in an idle moment at the office, I picked up a new tourist guidebook to the West Coast of America which happened to be laying on someone's desk, and riffled quickly through the pages. And then stopped. For there, on page 83, was an entry which caught my eye.
It related to the Hoquiam/Aberdeen district near Olympic National Park, and more specifically, to Highway 109 and a place named Ocean Shores. The entry told how - because the area was so often fogbound - Ocean Shores had introduced a number of unusual festivals on to its social calendar, perhaps the silliest of them being Undiscovery Day. Naturally, I read on.
On April 27, 1792, so the entry went, Capt George Vancouver sailed right by Ocean Shores (which did not exist at the time, of course) without noticing the land. Thick fog, you see. So to rectify the matter, every April 27 from 1973 onwards the partying community has gathered on the shore to yell, 'Hey, George,' in the hope that the explorer's ghost might make up for his earlier neglect and pay a belated visit. After which they all retired to their local pub to drown their sorrows.
Daft, of what? Anyway, other dates on the calendar evidently included a Fog Festival and a Clam Prix, which I won't go into now because it was the Holler which interested me, as any mention of Vancouver also meant King's Lynn.
I soon established that (1) Ocean Shores was one of those smart American retirement communities, with no history of its own, and (2) that the invention of some of these 'traditional festivals' was largely down to the imagination of the then newspaper editor, Bob Ward, who brought into being the tongue-in-cheek American Historical Hollering Association (or AH-HA, as it was known).
It duly became more famous than Bob could possibly have imagined, for the story was eventually picked up by a San Francisco radio station which urged listeners to go into the streets at midnight on April 27 and Holler with all their might. This was followed by newspaper and magazine stories. Then some ex-Ocean Shores' residents living in Singapore 'hollered' by phone across the South China Sea. Meanwhile, in 1982, it was written up in the guidebook. Which is where I came in.
Why not, I thought, try to arrange a Holler between Ocean Shores and King's Lynn, Vancouver's birthplace? And so it came to pass that in April, 1983, the first-ever trans-Atlantic Holler took place between 65 Undiscovery Day residents gathered in Ocean Shores' Legend Tavern, and 30 King's Lynn Vancouver Round Tablers in the Black Horse pub in Gaywood.
At the appointed hour a phone link was established and amplified, and the ritual enacted. From Ocean Shores: 'Hey, George.' And from Norfolk: 'Wadda you want?' In fact, and thanks to the amplification system, the two groups hollered, chatted, and sang to each other for over half an hour.
But the story did not end there, because in April, 1985, three residents of Ocean Shores, including Bob Ward and former mayor 'Bun' Lewis, actually flew to England to take part in the Norfolk end of the proceedings.
It was a particularly poignant international Holler that year, leading one of Gaywood's American guests to comment, 'Helluva way to come to make a phone call home!'
It began in the flick of an eye. In 1982, and in an idle moment at the office, I picked up a new tourist guidebook to the West Coast of America which happened to be laying on someone's desk, and riffled quickly through the pages. And then stopped. For there, on page 83, was an entry which caught my eye.
It related to the Hoquiam/Aberdeen district near Olympic National Park, and more specifically, to Highway 109 and a place named Ocean Shores. The entry told how - because the area was so often fogbound - Ocean Shores had introduced a number of unusual festivals on to its social calendar, perhaps the silliest of them being Undiscovery Day. Naturally, I read on.
On April 27, 1792, so the entry went, Capt George Vancouver sailed right by Ocean Shores (which did not exist at the time, of course) without noticing the land. Thick fog, you see. So to rectify the matter, every April 27 from 1973 onwards the partying community has gathered on the shore to yell, 'Hey, George,' in the hope that the explorer's ghost might make up for his earlier neglect and pay a belated visit. After which they all retired to their local pub to drown their sorrows.
Daft, of what? Anyway, other dates on the calendar evidently included a Fog Festival and a Clam Prix, which I won't go into now because it was the Holler which interested me, as any mention of Vancouver also meant King's Lynn.
I soon established that (1) Ocean Shores was one of those smart American retirement communities, with no history of its own, and (2) that the invention of some of these 'traditional festivals' was largely down to the imagination of the then newspaper editor, Bob Ward, who brought into being the tongue-in-cheek American Historical Hollering Association (or AH-HA, as it was known).
It duly became more famous than Bob could possibly have imagined, for the story was eventually picked up by a San Francisco radio station which urged listeners to go into the streets at midnight on April 27 and Holler with all their might. This was followed by newspaper and magazine stories. Then some ex-Ocean Shores' residents living in Singapore 'hollered' by phone across the South China Sea. Meanwhile, in 1982, it was written up in the guidebook. Which is where I came in.
Why not, I thought, try to arrange a Holler between Ocean Shores and King's Lynn, Vancouver's birthplace? And so it came to pass that in April, 1983, the first-ever trans-Atlantic Holler took place between 65 Undiscovery Day residents gathered in Ocean Shores' Legend Tavern, and 30 King's Lynn Vancouver Round Tablers in the Black Horse pub in Gaywood.
At the appointed hour a phone link was established and amplified, and the ritual enacted. From Ocean Shores: 'Hey, George.' And from Norfolk: 'Wadda you want?' In fact, and thanks to the amplification system, the two groups hollered, chatted, and sang to each other for over half an hour.
But the story did not end there, because in April, 1985, three residents of Ocean Shores, including Bob Ward and former mayor 'Bun' Lewis, actually flew to England to take part in the Norfolk end of the proceedings.
It was a particularly poignant international Holler that year, leading one of Gaywood's American guests to comment, 'Helluva way to come to make a phone call home!'
Tuesday 14 October 2014
THE EBBING TIDE
It was always a source of wonder to me to hear that my home town, Long Sutton (Lincs), was once so close to the former Sutton Wash estuary that old-timers - so my father maintained - would talk of standing near the church and being able to see ship's masts in the distance. Wonder, because as I understood matters, our little market town was at least three miles from the banks of the river Nene and all I could see, standing by the church and gazing east, was trees, the church hall, and houses.
Even on the edge of town, from the roadway on Roman Bank (a sea bank, said to be Roman-built) the seaward views were again nautically uninspiring, containing few clues, the space actually being filled by flat fields, farm buildings, greenhouses, a canning factory and, at a push, a distant glimpse of the next village, Sutton Bridge.
Whether these ancient sights of masts ever inspired anyone from the town to become a sailor I do not know, but the fact is that a story which might appear to be based on a sort of visual discrepancy is easily explained. Indeed, the story is probably true. Sutton Bridge, as a village, did not come into being until the 19th century, and while the Roman Bank is almost certainly not Roman, the old estuary was once much closer to our town, even within sight of the church; there was very little building on this east side of the town; and the estuary was once busy with shipping.
Long Sutton and its neighbours Lutton and Tydd St Mary, once occupied a vulnerable peninsular of land west of the old Nene estuary, within sight and smell of the sea. Some attempts at drainage were made during the medieval period, most obviously Morton's Leam, a canal which collected the waters of the Nene near Peterborough and deposited it across the fens as far as Guyhirn, near Wisbech. Sea banks were also built. But it was not until the 16th and 17th centuries, in particular, that some landowners, seeking to extend the grazing season on their often waterlogged peat grounds, began to take a serious interest.
It was not an easy struggle, for inundations and flooding had the effect of putting some of the land under constant siege. Then in 1634 work began on Vermuyden's scheme to construct the Seventy Foot, or Bedford River, which ran dead straight for 20 miles from Denver to Earith and which effectively diverted the waters of the river Ouse.
It was a major step forward for fenland as a whole, but as far as Long Sutton was concerned the town really had to wait until the middle of the 19th century - when a causeway was built across the width of the old Wash estuary, and the Nene itself was straightened and strengthened - before the regular inundations were finally defeated, the land between the town and the estuary was drained, and the community of Sutton Bridge was able to flourish.
This region's battles against the sea, or rather its battles against flooding, have largely passed into history and, in certain ways, have been forgotten, to the extent that today bored motorists fed up with the flatness and apparent gloominess are able to sigh with impatience as they cross this territory. But that is beside the point. The real point is that, slowly, over the centuries, these communities and these settlements, and their landowning backers, actually fought great battles against nature, pushed the limits of the landscape further and further out to sea, and made sure that today's bored motorists at least have a roadway to drive over.
It was always a source of wonder to me to hear that my home town, Long Sutton (Lincs), was once so close to the former Sutton Wash estuary that old-timers - so my father maintained - would talk of standing near the church and being able to see ship's masts in the distance. Wonder, because as I understood matters, our little market town was at least three miles from the banks of the river Nene and all I could see, standing by the church and gazing east, was trees, the church hall, and houses.
Even on the edge of town, from the roadway on Roman Bank (a sea bank, said to be Roman-built) the seaward views were again nautically uninspiring, containing few clues, the space actually being filled by flat fields, farm buildings, greenhouses, a canning factory and, at a push, a distant glimpse of the next village, Sutton Bridge.
Whether these ancient sights of masts ever inspired anyone from the town to become a sailor I do not know, but the fact is that a story which might appear to be based on a sort of visual discrepancy is easily explained. Indeed, the story is probably true. Sutton Bridge, as a village, did not come into being until the 19th century, and while the Roman Bank is almost certainly not Roman, the old estuary was once much closer to our town, even within sight of the church; there was very little building on this east side of the town; and the estuary was once busy with shipping.
Long Sutton and its neighbours Lutton and Tydd St Mary, once occupied a vulnerable peninsular of land west of the old Nene estuary, within sight and smell of the sea. Some attempts at drainage were made during the medieval period, most obviously Morton's Leam, a canal which collected the waters of the Nene near Peterborough and deposited it across the fens as far as Guyhirn, near Wisbech. Sea banks were also built. But it was not until the 16th and 17th centuries, in particular, that some landowners, seeking to extend the grazing season on their often waterlogged peat grounds, began to take a serious interest.
It was not an easy struggle, for inundations and flooding had the effect of putting some of the land under constant siege. Then in 1634 work began on Vermuyden's scheme to construct the Seventy Foot, or Bedford River, which ran dead straight for 20 miles from Denver to Earith and which effectively diverted the waters of the river Ouse.
It was a major step forward for fenland as a whole, but as far as Long Sutton was concerned the town really had to wait until the middle of the 19th century - when a causeway was built across the width of the old Wash estuary, and the Nene itself was straightened and strengthened - before the regular inundations were finally defeated, the land between the town and the estuary was drained, and the community of Sutton Bridge was able to flourish.
This region's battles against the sea, or rather its battles against flooding, have largely passed into history and, in certain ways, have been forgotten, to the extent that today bored motorists fed up with the flatness and apparent gloominess are able to sigh with impatience as they cross this territory. But that is beside the point. The real point is that, slowly, over the centuries, these communities and these settlements, and their landowning backers, actually fought great battles against nature, pushed the limits of the landscape further and further out to sea, and made sure that today's bored motorists at least have a roadway to drive over.
Saturday 11 October 2014
DIARIES OF YORE
It is a matter of small regret that I have never kept a diary. I say 'small' because of a feeling that had I done so it would have left me with shelves filled with the most banal rubbish. Of course, dates of occurrences are useful, and even banal notes can prove handy if you are trying to recollect something, such as what happened, and when. So small regrets, yes.
None of the clergymen-writers mentioned below did anything small, however, most notably Parson Woodforde, of Weston Longville, who was expansive in the extreme. Yet these three diaries, or more accurately their edited extracts, are essential reading for anyone interested in this region's history. They cover the period from about 1776 through to the end of the Second World War, not entirely in sequence and not completely, but near enough to give the reader a flavour of this span of 170 years.
My edition of Woodforde is a concise version, for the complete diaries would fill nearly all my shelves and do contain a deal of day-to-day trivia. But I love Woodforde, his sense of fun and duty, religious and familial. He was inquisitive. He did things, met people, went places, worried about his relatives and his congregation, and enjoyed his food.
By comparison, the Rev Benjamin John Armstrong, MA (Cantab), vicar of East Dereham from 1850 to 1888, was a bit of a sobersides. He noted happenings in the locality, but there is more of the touch of the scholar about him, involved as he was in the detail of church procedures. In some ways it is as though Woodforde's relaxed attitude has been replaced by Armstrong's Victorian straight-laced demeanour.
Indeed, the frontispiece photograph used in my volume, taken about 1865, shows him as a frock-coated clergyman posing between a chair and an ornate table, with his right hand on if not The Good Book, then at least A Book. He would have been around 48 years' old at the time, and he looks both serious and pleasant.
Completing my trilogy are the chronicles of Canon Reginald Augustus Bignold, rector of Carlton Colville, in Suffolk, from 1898 through to 1944; and indeed, many of his last entries written in the months before his death are concerned with events in the latter stages of the Second World War. He was greatly concerned with the First World War, too, and his concern for his parishioners, like the noise of the guns in France, rumbles in the background.
The bushy-bearded Canon Bignold - and a photograph also suggests he was likeable and approachable - seems to have been a hands-on sort of a chap, busy in all aspects of parish life. Indeed, he helped with rescue work after an air raid on Lowestoft, administering to the injured and dying. And he faced up to his conscience when, having recruited tirelessly in his role as Enlisting Officer, he then saw so many of his local boys killed or wounded.
I like all three of these diarists who, in their different ways, dealt with the troubles, dilemmas and delights of their times. Together, these pages provide a rich regional tapestry, and one we would not have had if they had not all taken the trouble to put pen to paper.
(The Diary of a Country Parson, 1758-1802, by James Woodforde, edited, The World's Classics, OUP, 1972. A Norfolk Diary, by Rev Benjamin Armstrong, edited, Harrup, 1949. The Carlton Colville Chronicles, by Canon Reginald Bignold, edited, Parochial Church Council and Norwich Union, 1982).
It is a matter of small regret that I have never kept a diary. I say 'small' because of a feeling that had I done so it would have left me with shelves filled with the most banal rubbish. Of course, dates of occurrences are useful, and even banal notes can prove handy if you are trying to recollect something, such as what happened, and when. So small regrets, yes.
None of the clergymen-writers mentioned below did anything small, however, most notably Parson Woodforde, of Weston Longville, who was expansive in the extreme. Yet these three diaries, or more accurately their edited extracts, are essential reading for anyone interested in this region's history. They cover the period from about 1776 through to the end of the Second World War, not entirely in sequence and not completely, but near enough to give the reader a flavour of this span of 170 years.
My edition of Woodforde is a concise version, for the complete diaries would fill nearly all my shelves and do contain a deal of day-to-day trivia. But I love Woodforde, his sense of fun and duty, religious and familial. He was inquisitive. He did things, met people, went places, worried about his relatives and his congregation, and enjoyed his food.
By comparison, the Rev Benjamin John Armstrong, MA (Cantab), vicar of East Dereham from 1850 to 1888, was a bit of a sobersides. He noted happenings in the locality, but there is more of the touch of the scholar about him, involved as he was in the detail of church procedures. In some ways it is as though Woodforde's relaxed attitude has been replaced by Armstrong's Victorian straight-laced demeanour.
Indeed, the frontispiece photograph used in my volume, taken about 1865, shows him as a frock-coated clergyman posing between a chair and an ornate table, with his right hand on if not The Good Book, then at least A Book. He would have been around 48 years' old at the time, and he looks both serious and pleasant.
Completing my trilogy are the chronicles of Canon Reginald Augustus Bignold, rector of Carlton Colville, in Suffolk, from 1898 through to 1944; and indeed, many of his last entries written in the months before his death are concerned with events in the latter stages of the Second World War. He was greatly concerned with the First World War, too, and his concern for his parishioners, like the noise of the guns in France, rumbles in the background.
The bushy-bearded Canon Bignold - and a photograph also suggests he was likeable and approachable - seems to have been a hands-on sort of a chap, busy in all aspects of parish life. Indeed, he helped with rescue work after an air raid on Lowestoft, administering to the injured and dying. And he faced up to his conscience when, having recruited tirelessly in his role as Enlisting Officer, he then saw so many of his local boys killed or wounded.
I like all three of these diarists who, in their different ways, dealt with the troubles, dilemmas and delights of their times. Together, these pages provide a rich regional tapestry, and one we would not have had if they had not all taken the trouble to put pen to paper.
(The Diary of a Country Parson, 1758-1802, by James Woodforde, edited, The World's Classics, OUP, 1972. A Norfolk Diary, by Rev Benjamin Armstrong, edited, Harrup, 1949. The Carlton Colville Chronicles, by Canon Reginald Bignold, edited, Parochial Church Council and Norwich Union, 1982).
Wednesday 8 October 2014
'HIDDEN' CEMETERY
It began with a public open day at a Norfolk railway station, the 'selling point' being that the station in question, County School, had not been used for years because the line had ceased business and grass was growing between the rusty rails. In fact, passenger services had stopped in 1964 and freight services in 1981. Then a group of railway enthusiasts took it on with long-term plans to get the trains running again, and they began the task by renovating and sprucing up the place.
County School rail halt, a few miles from North Elmham, is what urban dwellers would describe as isolated and lonely, or 'out in the sticks.' Though not as lonely, perhaps, as Berney Arms rail halt in the middle of Halvergate marsh. However, once upon a time County School was connected to the East Dereham line and was so-named because there was actually a school there. Or nearby, on the other side of some belts of trees. Originally known as the Norfolk County School, this extensive establishment later became the Watts Naval Training School.
Norfolk County School was opened in 1873, the foundation stone being laid by the Prince of Wales, later Edward V11, but it lasted only until 1895, after which it stood empty and remote in its 60-acre grounds. Then in 1901 it was taken over by EH Watts as a home for Barnado boys and was ear-marked, two years' later, as a training school for selected Barnado boys destined for the Merchant Navy.
The Naval Training School finally opened in 1906 with nautical classrooms, hall, chapel and library. Later still, after the training school was closed and demolished, the chapel was converted into a house. Then trees grew around the site, sheltering it even further from public gaze.
Meanwhile, the open day was a great success. We wandered around the renovated and redecorated platforms and buildings, and recognised what a great deal of labour the volunteers had put into saving this most modest little rail halt. Even so, it was still a work in progress, and still is for that matter, for the dream of bringing trains from Wymondham through County School once more has still not materialised. Yet the volunteers continue to toil, and hope.
Anyway, we looked around the station, bought some souvenir postcards, and then went for a stroll in the sunshine over the level crossing and along a tree-lined lane on the other side. We did not realise it at the time, but this was almost certainly private land. So we continued to stroll, and after a few minutes our eyes were attracted to what looked like sections of ornamental railing partially hidden in the trees and a stride or two off the main route. We stepped into the trees, and discovered the little cemetery.
We found a handful of graves, marked by headstones, locked into the silence of their woodland surroundings, and most of them, so it appeared, the final resting places of Barnado boys who had died during the years when the naval school was open. The grave markers showed most of them to have been in their early teens at the time.
Quite how many boys were buried there I do not know. Nor do I know the reasons for their demise, though I assume - and this relates to the early years of the 20th century, remember - that childhood illnesses and infections were behind most of them. Nevertheless it was, I recall, a beautiful and lonely place, redolent with sadness. Not the sort of words you would usually use to describe the environs of a railway station.
It began with a public open day at a Norfolk railway station, the 'selling point' being that the station in question, County School, had not been used for years because the line had ceased business and grass was growing between the rusty rails. In fact, passenger services had stopped in 1964 and freight services in 1981. Then a group of railway enthusiasts took it on with long-term plans to get the trains running again, and they began the task by renovating and sprucing up the place.
County School rail halt, a few miles from North Elmham, is what urban dwellers would describe as isolated and lonely, or 'out in the sticks.' Though not as lonely, perhaps, as Berney Arms rail halt in the middle of Halvergate marsh. However, once upon a time County School was connected to the East Dereham line and was so-named because there was actually a school there. Or nearby, on the other side of some belts of trees. Originally known as the Norfolk County School, this extensive establishment later became the Watts Naval Training School.
Norfolk County School was opened in 1873, the foundation stone being laid by the Prince of Wales, later Edward V11, but it lasted only until 1895, after which it stood empty and remote in its 60-acre grounds. Then in 1901 it was taken over by EH Watts as a home for Barnado boys and was ear-marked, two years' later, as a training school for selected Barnado boys destined for the Merchant Navy.
The Naval Training School finally opened in 1906 with nautical classrooms, hall, chapel and library. Later still, after the training school was closed and demolished, the chapel was converted into a house. Then trees grew around the site, sheltering it even further from public gaze.
Meanwhile, the open day was a great success. We wandered around the renovated and redecorated platforms and buildings, and recognised what a great deal of labour the volunteers had put into saving this most modest little rail halt. Even so, it was still a work in progress, and still is for that matter, for the dream of bringing trains from Wymondham through County School once more has still not materialised. Yet the volunteers continue to toil, and hope.
Anyway, we looked around the station, bought some souvenir postcards, and then went for a stroll in the sunshine over the level crossing and along a tree-lined lane on the other side. We did not realise it at the time, but this was almost certainly private land. So we continued to stroll, and after a few minutes our eyes were attracted to what looked like sections of ornamental railing partially hidden in the trees and a stride or two off the main route. We stepped into the trees, and discovered the little cemetery.
We found a handful of graves, marked by headstones, locked into the silence of their woodland surroundings, and most of them, so it appeared, the final resting places of Barnado boys who had died during the years when the naval school was open. The grave markers showed most of them to have been in their early teens at the time.
Quite how many boys were buried there I do not know. Nor do I know the reasons for their demise, though I assume - and this relates to the early years of the 20th century, remember - that childhood illnesses and infections were behind most of them. Nevertheless it was, I recall, a beautiful and lonely place, redolent with sadness. Not the sort of words you would usually use to describe the environs of a railway station.
Sunday 5 October 2014
WHO GETS THE VOTE?
These are stirring times, politically speaking. Scotland's independence referendum. Talk of a possible in/out vote on Europe. The rise of Ukip, and a General Election on the horizon. It all seems to give added significance to the ballot box. Scotland, of course, has already had one vote. But in terms of the upcoming General Election, I keep asking myself: who do I vote for?
I know who I have voted for in the past, but this time it feels different. And I also know at least two parties I will not vote for. But it is not a decision to be taken quickly because it feels as though all the main parties have moved so close together, in some respects, that radicalism has all but disappeared and trades unions banished to the periphery. Thus for the moment the future does not look particularly pretty, because a zero-hours contract England could also find itself, politically at least, isolated and alone. So, what do I want?
I want to see the Union survive, perhaps with more devolved powers.
I want to remain in Europe, because I'm sure we are better served in than out and because I want to see industrial and work-time rights and regulations, including the minimum wage and human rights, stay on the statute book.
I want to see a serious attempt to solve the housing crisis, meaning more affordable homes and maybe even new council houses. And how about some modern prefabs?
I want multinationals, offshore companies, top bosses and wealthy bankers taxed to the hilt. After all, if you trade here then you pay your taxes here, surely. And I want small businesses to receive far more encouragement.
I want the gap between the top-echelon rich and the debt-ridden poor narrowed considerably.
I don't want 'choice' in the NHS, I want the nearest facilities to offer the best care possible. Clearly, the NHS needs better funding, even if it means patients paying for their meals, etc.
I'd like to see hospital and school 'league' tables scrapped; regular competitive sports brought back into the curriculum; and religion-based school slowly absorbed into the mainstream.
I'd like wind, heat pumps and solar energy sources promoted more strongly, so that 'green' input into the national grid reaches a higher percentage, with the balance covered by the construction of (as few as possible) new nuclear power stations.
And I want to see utilities (many of which we once owned, remember) brought back into public ownership. Quite why we have sold the silverware and the silverware cupboard I don't know, but I certainly want the current flow of privatisation schemes - hardly any of which have actually improved anything for users, or workers - halted and reversed.
And I want more concensus politics. Surely there is a case for taking at least the NHS and Education out of the political arena completely, so that sensible ten-year planning can hold sway.
Mind you, all of that is just for starters.
Meanwhile, which party to I vote for? The important thing is to vote, of course, because those who don't vote, or who say they can't be bothered, should not expect their subsequent grumbles to be listened to with any degree of sympathy or seriousness.
These are stirring times, politically speaking. Scotland's independence referendum. Talk of a possible in/out vote on Europe. The rise of Ukip, and a General Election on the horizon. It all seems to give added significance to the ballot box. Scotland, of course, has already had one vote. But in terms of the upcoming General Election, I keep asking myself: who do I vote for?
I know who I have voted for in the past, but this time it feels different. And I also know at least two parties I will not vote for. But it is not a decision to be taken quickly because it feels as though all the main parties have moved so close together, in some respects, that radicalism has all but disappeared and trades unions banished to the periphery. Thus for the moment the future does not look particularly pretty, because a zero-hours contract England could also find itself, politically at least, isolated and alone. So, what do I want?
I want to see the Union survive, perhaps with more devolved powers.
I want to remain in Europe, because I'm sure we are better served in than out and because I want to see industrial and work-time rights and regulations, including the minimum wage and human rights, stay on the statute book.
I want to see a serious attempt to solve the housing crisis, meaning more affordable homes and maybe even new council houses. And how about some modern prefabs?
I want multinationals, offshore companies, top bosses and wealthy bankers taxed to the hilt. After all, if you trade here then you pay your taxes here, surely. And I want small businesses to receive far more encouragement.
I want the gap between the top-echelon rich and the debt-ridden poor narrowed considerably.
I don't want 'choice' in the NHS, I want the nearest facilities to offer the best care possible. Clearly, the NHS needs better funding, even if it means patients paying for their meals, etc.
I'd like to see hospital and school 'league' tables scrapped; regular competitive sports brought back into the curriculum; and religion-based school slowly absorbed into the mainstream.
I'd like wind, heat pumps and solar energy sources promoted more strongly, so that 'green' input into the national grid reaches a higher percentage, with the balance covered by the construction of (as few as possible) new nuclear power stations.
And I want to see utilities (many of which we once owned, remember) brought back into public ownership. Quite why we have sold the silverware and the silverware cupboard I don't know, but I certainly want the current flow of privatisation schemes - hardly any of which have actually improved anything for users, or workers - halted and reversed.
And I want more concensus politics. Surely there is a case for taking at least the NHS and Education out of the political arena completely, so that sensible ten-year planning can hold sway.
Mind you, all of that is just for starters.
Meanwhile, which party to I vote for? The important thing is to vote, of course, because those who don't vote, or who say they can't be bothered, should not expect their subsequent grumbles to be listened to with any degree of sympathy or seriousness.
Friday 3 October 2014
GLIDING ALONG
In 1983 I went for a week's tuition at a gliding school at Tibenham, in Norfolk. But for the life of me I cannot remember why, because I could not possibly have afforded to buy a glider or even acquire a part-share, and I certainly didn't really have the time. So I suppose it must have been because I liked the thought of it, having been aloft two or three times beforehand. I came across some of my course notes again only recently, and they served to underline the fact that in the intervening years I had completely forgotten not only my CBSIC but also my USTAL. James Stewart, who was based at Tibenham, would never have done that.
Anyway, we were a small, keen group of learners, and we began with schooling on the ground. Hence CBSIC, the pre-flight reminder, which translated as: controls (stick, centre; trim and close; pedals central; airbrakes, lock); ballast (weight limits); straps (secure and fastened); instruments (at zero; flaps and trim set for take-off); and canopy (closed and locked). Then, providing you got the all-clear, signal with one finger to the tug pilot to take up the towrope slack, and two fingers to say OK for take-off.
That last bit - using the tug aircraft to get the K13 two-seater glider up to 1,800ft - was my nemesis, and I remember dragging the poor tug pilot's tail this way and that with trillions of twitchy adjustments. In the end it probably did away with any romantic notions I may have had of becoming a regular flyer. But I do still remember the release from the tug. At 1,800ft, standby, hand on release. When the tug waggles his wings, pull the release, then turn left, steady and level, while the tug turns right.
In a way I 'enjoyed' the landings slightly more, and the USTAL - undercarriage, speed, trim, airbrakes, lookout. Join the circuit at 800ft, fly downwind to the high key (speed 50k, check landing area clear), then left and left again for final approach. Choose a threshhold, or landing point; airbrakes, half-brakes; and thump and slither over the concrete.
Truth to tell, I was usually sweating profusely when K13 finally crunched to a halt and the canopy was opened. But I did enjoy the general flying, the silent soaring, the views and clouds, and learning about the lumpy bits, the dark and menacing clouds - or the clag, as they called it.
Actually, my notes also revealed a failure to complete the week's course - because of the weather, I hasten to add - thus signalling an end to any idea of a solo circuit on finals day.
On the Monday, with my instructor in the back seat, I did three flights with an aggregate time in the air of an hour. My notes say: 'Hot, clear, bumpy at 1,200ft, crosswind to 10k, erratic and tense all day.' Me, that is. And maybe the instructor, too. Tuesday, with three more flights totalling 48 minutes, when I noted: 'Hot, clear, less bumpy, wind straight. Better, good landings, slight improvement behind tug.' But on Wednesday, two flights only totalling 34 minutes: 'Cloudy, ceiling about 1,500ft, spots of rain, smooth.'
A warning was there, for there was no flying at all on either Thursday or Friday. We were grounded, my notes recording: 'Dull, clammy. Unable to fly because of low cloud. Muggy. Ceiling 800-600ft.' The words do betray a feeling of regret, I think, because I really had hoped to do a bit better. In the end, though, the weather and my nervousness, did for us all.
There was one slight and subsequent consolation, for when I wrote it up afterwards for my newspaper it attracted one of my favoutite headlines: Clag Over Aslacton, it said, Aslacton being a village close to the runway. Personally, I've felt claggy ever since.
In 1983 I went for a week's tuition at a gliding school at Tibenham, in Norfolk. But for the life of me I cannot remember why, because I could not possibly have afforded to buy a glider or even acquire a part-share, and I certainly didn't really have the time. So I suppose it must have been because I liked the thought of it, having been aloft two or three times beforehand. I came across some of my course notes again only recently, and they served to underline the fact that in the intervening years I had completely forgotten not only my CBSIC but also my USTAL. James Stewart, who was based at Tibenham, would never have done that.
Anyway, we were a small, keen group of learners, and we began with schooling on the ground. Hence CBSIC, the pre-flight reminder, which translated as: controls (stick, centre; trim and close; pedals central; airbrakes, lock); ballast (weight limits); straps (secure and fastened); instruments (at zero; flaps and trim set for take-off); and canopy (closed and locked). Then, providing you got the all-clear, signal with one finger to the tug pilot to take up the towrope slack, and two fingers to say OK for take-off.
That last bit - using the tug aircraft to get the K13 two-seater glider up to 1,800ft - was my nemesis, and I remember dragging the poor tug pilot's tail this way and that with trillions of twitchy adjustments. In the end it probably did away with any romantic notions I may have had of becoming a regular flyer. But I do still remember the release from the tug. At 1,800ft, standby, hand on release. When the tug waggles his wings, pull the release, then turn left, steady and level, while the tug turns right.
In a way I 'enjoyed' the landings slightly more, and the USTAL - undercarriage, speed, trim, airbrakes, lookout. Join the circuit at 800ft, fly downwind to the high key (speed 50k, check landing area clear), then left and left again for final approach. Choose a threshhold, or landing point; airbrakes, half-brakes; and thump and slither over the concrete.
Truth to tell, I was usually sweating profusely when K13 finally crunched to a halt and the canopy was opened. But I did enjoy the general flying, the silent soaring, the views and clouds, and learning about the lumpy bits, the dark and menacing clouds - or the clag, as they called it.
Actually, my notes also revealed a failure to complete the week's course - because of the weather, I hasten to add - thus signalling an end to any idea of a solo circuit on finals day.
On the Monday, with my instructor in the back seat, I did three flights with an aggregate time in the air of an hour. My notes say: 'Hot, clear, bumpy at 1,200ft, crosswind to 10k, erratic and tense all day.' Me, that is. And maybe the instructor, too. Tuesday, with three more flights totalling 48 minutes, when I noted: 'Hot, clear, less bumpy, wind straight. Better, good landings, slight improvement behind tug.' But on Wednesday, two flights only totalling 34 minutes: 'Cloudy, ceiling about 1,500ft, spots of rain, smooth.'
A warning was there, for there was no flying at all on either Thursday or Friday. We were grounded, my notes recording: 'Dull, clammy. Unable to fly because of low cloud. Muggy. Ceiling 800-600ft.' The words do betray a feeling of regret, I think, because I really had hoped to do a bit better. In the end, though, the weather and my nervousness, did for us all.
There was one slight and subsequent consolation, for when I wrote it up afterwards for my newspaper it attracted one of my favoutite headlines: Clag Over Aslacton, it said, Aslacton being a village close to the runway. Personally, I've felt claggy ever since.
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