FOOT STREETS
Readers old enough to remember the city of Norwich when the cattle market plied its trade within sight of the battlements of the castle, will also recall London Street. This narrow little thoroughfare still helps to connect the cathedral precinct to the Norman open air market - one of the oldest markets in the country, by the way - and is one of the nicest streets the city has to offer. Busy, yet relaxing. Except that way back when, it wasn't relaxing, if you see what I mean.
In the 1950s it was also busy, and narrow, and this was the problem. Continuous two-way traffic meant that if a pair of vehicles met half-way they had to mount the pavements in order to pass. As for pedestrians, they had to get out of the way as quickly as possible, and most often cower in shop doorways. Something needed to be done, not only about London Street, but about the city as a whole.
First came 'foot streets,' a Continental invention eventually adopted by the City Fathers to cover not only London Street but also Gentleman's Walk and the market. There was great opposition, of course. Ban vehicles and it will kill trade. How will shops get their stock delivered? What about elderly folk who won't be able to get the shops if they can't park outside?
The debate raged until, finally, the London Street 'foot street' - as it was called at the time - was finally introduced. It was a stunning success, of course, and plans for an expansion of pedestrian-only areas were put on the agenda.
But this was only part of a bigger problem, that of rapidly increasing volumes of motor traffic which were slowly bringing the city to a standstill. What to do, though? Should the city welcome vehicles into its inner core, knock down dozens of buildings (and so destroy a chunk of the heritage of Norwich), and build flyovers and bridges and two-lane thoroughfares? Or should it try to keep the combustion engine at bay?
One of the first attempted solutions was ring-and-loop, a scheme which prevented vehicles from driving through the city but allowed them to gain access from the ring road, park at a multi-storey car park, and leave the city by the same route. It seemed to offer partial relief, and the plan was begun. Then it came to a standstill.
Next came the one-way system (also bitterly opposed, of course), when new one-way routes were - brilliantly, I think, recalling the scale of the problem - somehow fitted into an essentially Saxon and Victorian maze of streets without too much demolition.
Thus Norwich thankfully avoided the worst excesses of some of the motoring schemes, many of which devastated other cities. The age of concrete, to an extent, passed Norwich by. Of course, there were other setbacks. A Light Railway scheme was debated and then allowed to fade away, a hurdle only the much later development of park-and-ride schemes has managed to overcome.
I have two regrets. Having recently been in Manchester and looked with envy at their Metro (the locals call them trams) system, I thought it something Norwich might want to debate again one of these fine days. And it still saddens me to see Tombland, perhaps the finest open space aside from the market in the central city area, divided by vehicles. Tombland cries out to be a pedestrian-only area, if only it could be fitted into the general plan of things.
Wednesday 29 January 2014
Sunday 26 January 2014
SHAPING THE SEASIDE
Attitudes change. When a certain Mr White asked his correspondents to submit their text for the 1845 edition of his Norfolk county directory, one of them wrote of Lower Sheringham that 'a peep down the rugged cliffs is enough to strike a stranger with horror.' Not popular with nervous outsiders, then.
Nevertheless, visitors did come. Later, the railway came, too, which in turn sparked a boom in hotel construction and the apartment rental trade. Holidays 'twixt sea and pine' began to become popular. So much so that in 1910 - and 65 years after it was felt the seascape view from the cliffs might frighten landlubbers - Ward Lock & Co (London) felt sufficiently confident of the level of interest to publish their hotel and business directory for Sheringham, Cromer and Runton.
And a hefty, handsome job it was, too, pocket-sized, stiff-covered, and packed with information. For these were, in so many ways, pre-War boom years for the blossoming community of Lower Sheringham, and you can sense the increasing level of commercial prosperity by glancing through the advertisements in the book.
For example, in 1910 the Grand and the Sheringham hotels were busily promoting themselves. On the other hand, with the right sort of brass and, presumably, the right sort of social standing, you could choose to rent the Belvoir, near the golf course; The Grove, Church Street; or perhaps Golf Lodge, Montague Crescent (complete with its own tennis court and housemaid's pantry). If it was a rented apartment you craved then you could have tried Abbotsford, South Street; Haslemere, Victoria Street; Ives of High Street; Selwyn House, Augusta Street; or perhaps Rhododendrons, The Boulevade.
And what else could visitors enjoy in 1910? Well for a start angling, bathing, bowls (there were greens at Cliff Road, Station Hotel and Recreation Ground), cricket, croquet, golf, and lawn tennis (or tennis on the beach). They could also take a rail excursion (choice of Aylsham, Lowestoft, Norwich, Wroxham, Yarmouth, or the Broads); or perhaps a walk (to Sheringham Woods, Lion's Mouth, Pretty Corner, Beeston Priory, Roman Camp, Cromer, Overstrand or Weybourne).
Or they could buy a bicycle from Rymer, of Station Road, obtain some nails and screws from Foulger the ironmonger also in Station Road, or sort out their photographic problems with Tansley, in Augusta Street.
Incidentally, rail journey times from Sheringham to London, via the GER, were said to be 'a little under three hours,' and a first class 15-day ticket cost 27s6d.
The physical energy of these visitors seems remarkable. Given that there were so many facilities available there would surely have been little time left in the holiday schedule to actually relax and contemplate the view. Be reassured, however, that the sea air was 'bracing' while the general atmosphere of Lower Sheringham (Upper Sheringham at this time still boasted the parish church, remember), despite the building of the railway and any number of hotels, happily remained 'quaint.'
It still is.
Attitudes change. When a certain Mr White asked his correspondents to submit their text for the 1845 edition of his Norfolk county directory, one of them wrote of Lower Sheringham that 'a peep down the rugged cliffs is enough to strike a stranger with horror.' Not popular with nervous outsiders, then.
Nevertheless, visitors did come. Later, the railway came, too, which in turn sparked a boom in hotel construction and the apartment rental trade. Holidays 'twixt sea and pine' began to become popular. So much so that in 1910 - and 65 years after it was felt the seascape view from the cliffs might frighten landlubbers - Ward Lock & Co (London) felt sufficiently confident of the level of interest to publish their hotel and business directory for Sheringham, Cromer and Runton.
And a hefty, handsome job it was, too, pocket-sized, stiff-covered, and packed with information. For these were, in so many ways, pre-War boom years for the blossoming community of Lower Sheringham, and you can sense the increasing level of commercial prosperity by glancing through the advertisements in the book.
For example, in 1910 the Grand and the Sheringham hotels were busily promoting themselves. On the other hand, with the right sort of brass and, presumably, the right sort of social standing, you could choose to rent the Belvoir, near the golf course; The Grove, Church Street; or perhaps Golf Lodge, Montague Crescent (complete with its own tennis court and housemaid's pantry). If it was a rented apartment you craved then you could have tried Abbotsford, South Street; Haslemere, Victoria Street; Ives of High Street; Selwyn House, Augusta Street; or perhaps Rhododendrons, The Boulevade.
And what else could visitors enjoy in 1910? Well for a start angling, bathing, bowls (there were greens at Cliff Road, Station Hotel and Recreation Ground), cricket, croquet, golf, and lawn tennis (or tennis on the beach). They could also take a rail excursion (choice of Aylsham, Lowestoft, Norwich, Wroxham, Yarmouth, or the Broads); or perhaps a walk (to Sheringham Woods, Lion's Mouth, Pretty Corner, Beeston Priory, Roman Camp, Cromer, Overstrand or Weybourne).
Or they could buy a bicycle from Rymer, of Station Road, obtain some nails and screws from Foulger the ironmonger also in Station Road, or sort out their photographic problems with Tansley, in Augusta Street.
Incidentally, rail journey times from Sheringham to London, via the GER, were said to be 'a little under three hours,' and a first class 15-day ticket cost 27s6d.
The physical energy of these visitors seems remarkable. Given that there were so many facilities available there would surely have been little time left in the holiday schedule to actually relax and contemplate the view. Be reassured, however, that the sea air was 'bracing' while the general atmosphere of Lower Sheringham (Upper Sheringham at this time still boasted the parish church, remember), despite the building of the railway and any number of hotels, happily remained 'quaint.'
It still is.
Thursday 23 January 2014
BOUDICA WHO?
Have recently finished reading a book about the Boudican revolt (Boudica's Last Stand, The History Press, by John Waite) which does its level best to leave Norfolk out of the story, or at least leave its role unacknowleged. Indeed, Norfolk does not even appear in the Index, and Norfolk experts do not seem to have been consulted.
As so very little is known about her, as there are so few concrete facts, and as personal interpretation is such a large part of the legend, the writer is perhaps entitled to do this. But to my mind, it provides a curiously skewed approach to the subject.
Who was she? Frankly, no-one knows, and indeed we might know nothing about her at all were it not for a couple of Roman writers who put stylus to wax tablet many decades after the actual events of AD60/61. But they were of the winning side, remember, and they were writing for their own audiences. So even their works need to be taken with a pinch of salt. A balancing factor is that evidence from the ground does appear to support the general thrust of their stories. Archaeology and written history seem to coincide, more or less. What is missing is detail. Details like, who was she, and where did she come from?
Prasutagus probably became top man in the troubled Iceni federation (based in Norfolk, north Suffolk, and parts of the Fens) in around AD47, or at about the time of the first Iceni uprising against the occupiers. The Iceni tribal groupings may have been worryingly divided at this point (pro- and anti-Roman) causing internal strife; for while some took to armed resistance in AD47, it seems equally clear that some others - perhaps a majority - did not. The rebels were slaughtered, anyway, possibly at Stonea; and afterwards it was important, from a Roman standpoint, to try to heal the rift and reunite the groups.
And so Prasutagus (evidently pro-Roman) came to the fore, and most likely in the mid- or late AD40s he takes himself a wife. At this point, a fog swirls in and obscures the reality. Who was she? Where did she come from?
Subsequent events (ie, the AD60/61 revolt) suggest she knew the Romans and may even have had dealings with their officials, or had watched them in action. She may have been versed in military matters and Druidic ritual; and she may have been of equal social status to Prasutagus, She was undoubtedly charismatic. Indeed, and as an aristocrat, her dress and lifestyle may have been influenced by Roman fashion.
But if their marriage really was an attempt to heal wounds and bring harmony to the bickering Iceni, if they had not a single 'palace' but a number of 'homes' in various parts of the area, then she could have come from either 'side' of the debate.
Was she from an 'old' ritualistic Druidic background based in north or north-west Norfolk, perhaps? Or a child of one of the other anti-Roman groupings perhaps in the Fens? From the neighbouring Corieltaurvi tribe, or the Catuvellauni? Or even from further afield?
I still like to think she did come from Norfolk, though. But short of a major archaeological breakthrough, we may never know. Meanwhile, the supposition goes on.
Have recently finished reading a book about the Boudican revolt (Boudica's Last Stand, The History Press, by John Waite) which does its level best to leave Norfolk out of the story, or at least leave its role unacknowleged. Indeed, Norfolk does not even appear in the Index, and Norfolk experts do not seem to have been consulted.
As so very little is known about her, as there are so few concrete facts, and as personal interpretation is such a large part of the legend, the writer is perhaps entitled to do this. But to my mind, it provides a curiously skewed approach to the subject.
Who was she? Frankly, no-one knows, and indeed we might know nothing about her at all were it not for a couple of Roman writers who put stylus to wax tablet many decades after the actual events of AD60/61. But they were of the winning side, remember, and they were writing for their own audiences. So even their works need to be taken with a pinch of salt. A balancing factor is that evidence from the ground does appear to support the general thrust of their stories. Archaeology and written history seem to coincide, more or less. What is missing is detail. Details like, who was she, and where did she come from?
Prasutagus probably became top man in the troubled Iceni federation (based in Norfolk, north Suffolk, and parts of the Fens) in around AD47, or at about the time of the first Iceni uprising against the occupiers. The Iceni tribal groupings may have been worryingly divided at this point (pro- and anti-Roman) causing internal strife; for while some took to armed resistance in AD47, it seems equally clear that some others - perhaps a majority - did not. The rebels were slaughtered, anyway, possibly at Stonea; and afterwards it was important, from a Roman standpoint, to try to heal the rift and reunite the groups.
And so Prasutagus (evidently pro-Roman) came to the fore, and most likely in the mid- or late AD40s he takes himself a wife. At this point, a fog swirls in and obscures the reality. Who was she? Where did she come from?
Subsequent events (ie, the AD60/61 revolt) suggest she knew the Romans and may even have had dealings with their officials, or had watched them in action. She may have been versed in military matters and Druidic ritual; and she may have been of equal social status to Prasutagus, She was undoubtedly charismatic. Indeed, and as an aristocrat, her dress and lifestyle may have been influenced by Roman fashion.
But if their marriage really was an attempt to heal wounds and bring harmony to the bickering Iceni, if they had not a single 'palace' but a number of 'homes' in various parts of the area, then she could have come from either 'side' of the debate.
Was she from an 'old' ritualistic Druidic background based in north or north-west Norfolk, perhaps? Or a child of one of the other anti-Roman groupings perhaps in the Fens? From the neighbouring Corieltaurvi tribe, or the Catuvellauni? Or even from further afield?
I still like to think she did come from Norfolk, though. But short of a major archaeological breakthrough, we may never know. Meanwhile, the supposition goes on.
Tuesday 21 January 2014
GLORIOUS MUD
Two of the many pleasures of watching old film of football matches from the past are (a) an opportunity to check how fashion in haircuts and the length of shorts has changed over the seasons, and (b) the state of the pitches. Haircuts were invariably short-back-and-sides until the 1970s, when Mexican bandit-type 'tashes and flowing locks took over, while shorts (in the 1950s many match programmes still called them knickers) got shorter and shorter until they reached mid-thigh. Mind you, they did look rather more athletic and businesslike than some of the baggy knee-length (and lower) longjohns of today.
But the pitches! Most of the surfaces would now be considered unplayable, and perhaps in theory many of them were. Things have moved on, of course, and many modern surfaces, some of them profusely over-irrigated, seem to resemble shiny snooker tables. This in turn reminds me of what managers used to say about the old Wembley: 'If you can't play good football on this Wembley pitch, then you can't play anywhere.'
But what constitutes 'unplayable' nowadays and evidently justifies a match being called off? It is quite usual to hear complaints about any pitch which is slightly less smooth than snooker beige, or too wet, the types of conditions today's much lighter footballs - and goalkeepers, for that matter, who cannot fathom out the swerve - simply do not enjoy. Thus the menu of tests applied to pitches of old seem somewhat different to today's rules.
For example, if snow/frost/rain or whatever threatened a 1950s/60s match then the ref had several things to keep in mind during his inspection. Are the terraces OK, or are they a danger to the public (ie, snow, ice)? Is the pitch dangerous (ie, are players likely to be injured using it)? Can the lines be seen by players and officials (snow, water)? And will the ball move (ie, will a pass allow the ball to travel a reasonable distance)?
If it was not dangerous, and if you could see the lines, then in general the match was on. Mud was not seen as such a huge hazard then.
I can remember three particular pitch complications involving Norwich City games. One was a League Cup semi-final second leg when Chelsea came to Carrow Road and, with City leading and about seven minutes to go, fog finally descended so thickly the ref, in the centre circle, could not see either goalmouth. He rightly called it off.
Another was a match at Ipswich on a very frosty and slippery pitch, when in the first half the Norwich goalmouth, particularly, was causing the City 'keeper no end of difficulty. Came half-time, and the Ipswich groundstaff rushed on and began to sand and sweep the same goalmough, much to the fury of the City fans. And once when I travelled by train to London on a very snowy Boxing Day only to arrive at Shepherd's Bush to find a notice pinned on the gate saying, 'Match Postponed.'
No mobile phones or laptops in those days, of course, which meant it was difficult to obtain or spread the news. On the other hand, a consolation was that the fans did watch many, many thrilling games played by mudlarks on very sloppy pitches, something which just doesn't happen today. Or not in the Premiership, anyway.
Two of the many pleasures of watching old film of football matches from the past are (a) an opportunity to check how fashion in haircuts and the length of shorts has changed over the seasons, and (b) the state of the pitches. Haircuts were invariably short-back-and-sides until the 1970s, when Mexican bandit-type 'tashes and flowing locks took over, while shorts (in the 1950s many match programmes still called them knickers) got shorter and shorter until they reached mid-thigh. Mind you, they did look rather more athletic and businesslike than some of the baggy knee-length (and lower) longjohns of today.
But the pitches! Most of the surfaces would now be considered unplayable, and perhaps in theory many of them were. Things have moved on, of course, and many modern surfaces, some of them profusely over-irrigated, seem to resemble shiny snooker tables. This in turn reminds me of what managers used to say about the old Wembley: 'If you can't play good football on this Wembley pitch, then you can't play anywhere.'
But what constitutes 'unplayable' nowadays and evidently justifies a match being called off? It is quite usual to hear complaints about any pitch which is slightly less smooth than snooker beige, or too wet, the types of conditions today's much lighter footballs - and goalkeepers, for that matter, who cannot fathom out the swerve - simply do not enjoy. Thus the menu of tests applied to pitches of old seem somewhat different to today's rules.
For example, if snow/frost/rain or whatever threatened a 1950s/60s match then the ref had several things to keep in mind during his inspection. Are the terraces OK, or are they a danger to the public (ie, snow, ice)? Is the pitch dangerous (ie, are players likely to be injured using it)? Can the lines be seen by players and officials (snow, water)? And will the ball move (ie, will a pass allow the ball to travel a reasonable distance)?
If it was not dangerous, and if you could see the lines, then in general the match was on. Mud was not seen as such a huge hazard then.
I can remember three particular pitch complications involving Norwich City games. One was a League Cup semi-final second leg when Chelsea came to Carrow Road and, with City leading and about seven minutes to go, fog finally descended so thickly the ref, in the centre circle, could not see either goalmouth. He rightly called it off.
Another was a match at Ipswich on a very frosty and slippery pitch, when in the first half the Norwich goalmouth, particularly, was causing the City 'keeper no end of difficulty. Came half-time, and the Ipswich groundstaff rushed on and began to sand and sweep the same goalmough, much to the fury of the City fans. And once when I travelled by train to London on a very snowy Boxing Day only to arrive at Shepherd's Bush to find a notice pinned on the gate saying, 'Match Postponed.'
No mobile phones or laptops in those days, of course, which meant it was difficult to obtain or spread the news. On the other hand, a consolation was that the fans did watch many, many thrilling games played by mudlarks on very sloppy pitches, something which just doesn't happen today. Or not in the Premiership, anyway.
Sunday 19 January 2014
A MASTERPIECE
The Masterpieces exhibition (open until February 24) at the University of East Anglia's Sainsbury Centre in Norwich, is one of the most fascinating I have seen for a long time. Simply for its scope, and the number of exhibits, it warrants the best part of a day's visit, and while arguments may rumble on about what ought to be there and is not, or what is there and is somehow not deserving, the basic premise has surely been achieved.
And the premise? A gathering of works from across the face of the arts (from treasure hoards of antiquity to album covers, Norwich shawls and the collections of grand houses) showing, and here I quote from the catalogue, 'East Anglia at its most complex, its most far-reaching, and at its most beautiful.'
You submerge yourself in detail and variety. Whether it is a Lotus Formula One racing car, a collection of photographs, chairs from Suffolk, paintings or jewellery, architecture or stained glass, it leads one on a relentlessly fascinating journey. It also reinforces and illustrates our strong historic links with France and the Low Countries, the Rhine delta and Scandinavia, and thus our previously physical and latterly emotional attachment to mainland Europe, and begs the question: are we really as isolated and independent as some folk like to think?
Personal favourites abound. The battered copper alloy head of Claudius (or possibly Nero) fished out of the river Alde at Rendham (Suffolk); the Crownthorpe hoard; the Hoxne pepper pot; the Pentney Anglo-Saxon disc brooch; John Sell Cotman's painting Storm on a Yarmouth Beach; Philip Wilson Steer's Children Paddling; and Epstein's bronze head of Albert Einstein. They are all there. But if I had to choose just one item from amid the dozens to put into my my personal display case, Then it would have to be the Happisburgh handaxe.
It is large to begin with, and would have needed a strong hand to use, and the edges still look as sharp as razors. Not the first handaxe to be found, of course, but the first found in some sort of dating context, which in this case was the fossil rich deposit of the Cromer Forest Bed. And the dating? Well, 700,000 years anyway, and possibly 900,000 years, which makes it contemporary with the fossilised West Runton elephant skeleton and also one of the oldest human artefacts ever found in Britain.
Scouring tides at Happisburgh over the years have slowly creamed away layers of the beach and cliffs down to the ancient surface of Doggerland, the submerged landscape which once connected us to the mainland. So the handaxe tells of human arrivals in our neck of the woods either just before the last Ice Age or during one of the Ice Age's warmer spells. These wanderers, who may or may not have been Homo Heidelbergensis, evidently crossed Doggerland using routes between the rivers, bringing their technology with them, in order to follow the herds and explore our outermost corner of the Continent.
The Happisburgh handaxe is a marvellous connection with our remote past, and with our beginnings, and had it not been for this tool then it is likely that some of the other masterpieces on display would not have been created.
The flint handaxe. Man's greatest invention? Ever?
The Masterpieces exhibition (open until February 24) at the University of East Anglia's Sainsbury Centre in Norwich, is one of the most fascinating I have seen for a long time. Simply for its scope, and the number of exhibits, it warrants the best part of a day's visit, and while arguments may rumble on about what ought to be there and is not, or what is there and is somehow not deserving, the basic premise has surely been achieved.
And the premise? A gathering of works from across the face of the arts (from treasure hoards of antiquity to album covers, Norwich shawls and the collections of grand houses) showing, and here I quote from the catalogue, 'East Anglia at its most complex, its most far-reaching, and at its most beautiful.'
You submerge yourself in detail and variety. Whether it is a Lotus Formula One racing car, a collection of photographs, chairs from Suffolk, paintings or jewellery, architecture or stained glass, it leads one on a relentlessly fascinating journey. It also reinforces and illustrates our strong historic links with France and the Low Countries, the Rhine delta and Scandinavia, and thus our previously physical and latterly emotional attachment to mainland Europe, and begs the question: are we really as isolated and independent as some folk like to think?
Personal favourites abound. The battered copper alloy head of Claudius (or possibly Nero) fished out of the river Alde at Rendham (Suffolk); the Crownthorpe hoard; the Hoxne pepper pot; the Pentney Anglo-Saxon disc brooch; John Sell Cotman's painting Storm on a Yarmouth Beach; Philip Wilson Steer's Children Paddling; and Epstein's bronze head of Albert Einstein. They are all there. But if I had to choose just one item from amid the dozens to put into my my personal display case, Then it would have to be the Happisburgh handaxe.
It is large to begin with, and would have needed a strong hand to use, and the edges still look as sharp as razors. Not the first handaxe to be found, of course, but the first found in some sort of dating context, which in this case was the fossil rich deposit of the Cromer Forest Bed. And the dating? Well, 700,000 years anyway, and possibly 900,000 years, which makes it contemporary with the fossilised West Runton elephant skeleton and also one of the oldest human artefacts ever found in Britain.
Scouring tides at Happisburgh over the years have slowly creamed away layers of the beach and cliffs down to the ancient surface of Doggerland, the submerged landscape which once connected us to the mainland. So the handaxe tells of human arrivals in our neck of the woods either just before the last Ice Age or during one of the Ice Age's warmer spells. These wanderers, who may or may not have been Homo Heidelbergensis, evidently crossed Doggerland using routes between the rivers, bringing their technology with them, in order to follow the herds and explore our outermost corner of the Continent.
The Happisburgh handaxe is a marvellous connection with our remote past, and with our beginnings, and had it not been for this tool then it is likely that some of the other masterpieces on display would not have been created.
The flint handaxe. Man's greatest invention? Ever?
Wednesday 15 January 2014
JAMES STEWART (2)
Having revisited his War-time Norfolk air base at Tibenham in 1975, Hollywood film star James Stewart kept his word (see blog December, 2013) and joined in with two or three of the subsequent 2nd Air Division reunions. But he did not come back to England as a visiting 'celeb,' but as an ordinary ex-flyer, one of the boys. He stayed with his mates in the same hotels, travelled with them by coach as they did the rounds of once-familiar locations, and remained as anonymous as possible within the group. They all liked him for that.
One of his more formal appearances was on the day he and his group went to see the former American Memorial Library - later severely damaged by fire, and replaced by a new Memorial tribute in the Forum - which at the time was housed at the old City library. Here he did pose for photographs, and behaved as a visiting dignitary would in a public role.
I have no doubt, however, that he had his 'anonymous' role firmly in mind when he and his colleagues, on another of their four-yearly visits, went to the former Norwood Rooms in Aylsham Road, Norwich - a popular dancing and dining venue at the time - for a veterans' banquet. My wife and I were also invited, and we saw what happened.
First, he did not sit with the brass and bigwigs on the top table. He stayed at his table on the floor of the hall surrounded by his pals. And second, he was a very reluctant speaker.
When he was finally persuaded to clamber on to the band platform to say a few words, he thanked everyone, including the people of Norfolk, for the welcome they gave the Americans during the War, and he told the story of the powdered eggs.
Apparently powdered eggs were the staple breakfast diet in the officers' mess at Tibenham, and Stewart became heartily sick of them. On other days, however, they were fed fresh farm eggs straight from a local farm. Unfortunately, those were the days on which a bombing mission was scheduled. So that was how they knew what was happening. Dried eggs, and they had their feet on the ground a little longer. Fresh eggs, and it was bombs away!
Later the same evening there occurred one of those rare, unrehearsed and unexpected events that invariably stick in the memory. The band was playing some Glenn Miller favourites, which got the veterans whistling and cheering. It was particularly apt because the film, The Glenn Miller Story, starring Stewart as Miller, was still doing the rounds. The band leader beckoned to Stewart and invited him to take over the conducting role. Stewart shook his head. Then the audience started clapping and shouting, and he reluctantly clambered back on to the stage and led the band through an admittedly slowish version of Moonlight Serenade. It brought the house down.
Some years' later, our local morning newspaper began a scheme promoting plaques to be fixed to buildings where famous people had appeared. Most of those erected, it seemed to me, related to 1960s and 1970s pop groups. There was nothing to remind passers-by, for example, that Count Basie and his band once appeared at the old Samson & Hercules dance hall in Tombland. Or that at the old Norwood Rooms a famous Hollywood film star once clambered on to the stage, borrowed the resident band, and reprised a tiny piece of one of his best known film roles.
Having revisited his War-time Norfolk air base at Tibenham in 1975, Hollywood film star James Stewart kept his word (see blog December, 2013) and joined in with two or three of the subsequent 2nd Air Division reunions. But he did not come back to England as a visiting 'celeb,' but as an ordinary ex-flyer, one of the boys. He stayed with his mates in the same hotels, travelled with them by coach as they did the rounds of once-familiar locations, and remained as anonymous as possible within the group. They all liked him for that.
One of his more formal appearances was on the day he and his group went to see the former American Memorial Library - later severely damaged by fire, and replaced by a new Memorial tribute in the Forum - which at the time was housed at the old City library. Here he did pose for photographs, and behaved as a visiting dignitary would in a public role.
I have no doubt, however, that he had his 'anonymous' role firmly in mind when he and his colleagues, on another of their four-yearly visits, went to the former Norwood Rooms in Aylsham Road, Norwich - a popular dancing and dining venue at the time - for a veterans' banquet. My wife and I were also invited, and we saw what happened.
First, he did not sit with the brass and bigwigs on the top table. He stayed at his table on the floor of the hall surrounded by his pals. And second, he was a very reluctant speaker.
When he was finally persuaded to clamber on to the band platform to say a few words, he thanked everyone, including the people of Norfolk, for the welcome they gave the Americans during the War, and he told the story of the powdered eggs.
Apparently powdered eggs were the staple breakfast diet in the officers' mess at Tibenham, and Stewart became heartily sick of them. On other days, however, they were fed fresh farm eggs straight from a local farm. Unfortunately, those were the days on which a bombing mission was scheduled. So that was how they knew what was happening. Dried eggs, and they had their feet on the ground a little longer. Fresh eggs, and it was bombs away!
Later the same evening there occurred one of those rare, unrehearsed and unexpected events that invariably stick in the memory. The band was playing some Glenn Miller favourites, which got the veterans whistling and cheering. It was particularly apt because the film, The Glenn Miller Story, starring Stewart as Miller, was still doing the rounds. The band leader beckoned to Stewart and invited him to take over the conducting role. Stewart shook his head. Then the audience started clapping and shouting, and he reluctantly clambered back on to the stage and led the band through an admittedly slowish version of Moonlight Serenade. It brought the house down.
Some years' later, our local morning newspaper began a scheme promoting plaques to be fixed to buildings where famous people had appeared. Most of those erected, it seemed to me, related to 1960s and 1970s pop groups. There was nothing to remind passers-by, for example, that Count Basie and his band once appeared at the old Samson & Hercules dance hall in Tombland. Or that at the old Norwood Rooms a famous Hollywood film star once clambered on to the stage, borrowed the resident band, and reprised a tiny piece of one of his best known film roles.
Sunday 12 January 2014
CUP DOWNGRADE
There seems little doubt that Aston Villa manager Paul Lambert's recent comments about club priorities, involving the Premiership and the FA Cup, were taken out of context by some over-excited sections of the media. After all, and from a purely financial perspective, he merely stated the obvious. The retention of Premiership status, in cash terms, is worth far more than the profits gained from reaching a Wembley final. Nevertheless, it is also difficult to disagree with an underlying feeling that for the last few seasons many Premiership clubs have been quietly downgrading the world's most famous knock-out competition.
If you need reasons then look at the bloated size of many of the Premiership fixture lists and playing staffs and remember, at the same time, that most of the old, regular reserve team league competitions (the Football Combination?) have been swept away. Thus many players not turning out regularly in the first team spend much of their time at the training ground or on the bench instead of maintaining actual match fitness. An FA Cup-tie against a lowlier club thus provides a handy opportunity to pop in a few reserves in desperate need of an outing. Nowadays, it is known as 'squad rotation.'
Why have so many fixtures and such big squads in the first place? A number of reasons, I think: (a) a proliferation of European competitions; (b) some of these clubs can actually afford big squads; and (c) because they are allowed to use so many substitutes per match (meaning that you don't need eleven players on match days any more, you need 18). Which brings me to the next point. When were football fans actually asked if they wanted their game changed from a team game to a squad game? I don't remember a vote, or even a consultation. It just happened, or was quietly made to happen. The game slithered into 'squadism' without much thought.
Pressures to allow a substitute began to inflate in the late 1950s and 1960s because of a series of injuries to players most noticeably in FA Cup Finals. The season's major spectacle was being spoiled. So, finally, reluctant domestic legislators were persuaded to make the change.
At first, a single player substitution was allowed, but only if another on-field player was injured. Of course, it didn't take coaches long to cotton on to the fact that if they wanted to make a change, anyway, all they had to do was give the nod for the selected on-field player to sit down on the pitch, rub his knee, thigh or ankle, and put on a pained expression. Thus the referee had no course but to wave the substitute on.
Naturally, it all became a bit of a farce, and the 'injury rule' approach became unsustainable. By the time the feigning of injury had become ingrained in the game the rules were changed again. Now you could make a change at any time. Then two changes, and then three. Meanwhile, the choice of allowable possible alternatives on the bench rose to seven. So football was no longer a team game, but a squad game, and pretending to be injured had become a tradition.
Perhaps some of the Premiership clubs really should become bolder and, if the Cup is such a terrible bind for them, seek to withdraw completely from the competition. But of course, they daren't. Ask most football fans which they would prefer their club to win - the FA Cup, or a European competition - and my bet (sorry, I'm against all betting in a sporting context) is that most would vote for the FA Cup every day of the week.
There seems little doubt that Aston Villa manager Paul Lambert's recent comments about club priorities, involving the Premiership and the FA Cup, were taken out of context by some over-excited sections of the media. After all, and from a purely financial perspective, he merely stated the obvious. The retention of Premiership status, in cash terms, is worth far more than the profits gained from reaching a Wembley final. Nevertheless, it is also difficult to disagree with an underlying feeling that for the last few seasons many Premiership clubs have been quietly downgrading the world's most famous knock-out competition.
If you need reasons then look at the bloated size of many of the Premiership fixture lists and playing staffs and remember, at the same time, that most of the old, regular reserve team league competitions (the Football Combination?) have been swept away. Thus many players not turning out regularly in the first team spend much of their time at the training ground or on the bench instead of maintaining actual match fitness. An FA Cup-tie against a lowlier club thus provides a handy opportunity to pop in a few reserves in desperate need of an outing. Nowadays, it is known as 'squad rotation.'
Why have so many fixtures and such big squads in the first place? A number of reasons, I think: (a) a proliferation of European competitions; (b) some of these clubs can actually afford big squads; and (c) because they are allowed to use so many substitutes per match (meaning that you don't need eleven players on match days any more, you need 18). Which brings me to the next point. When were football fans actually asked if they wanted their game changed from a team game to a squad game? I don't remember a vote, or even a consultation. It just happened, or was quietly made to happen. The game slithered into 'squadism' without much thought.
Pressures to allow a substitute began to inflate in the late 1950s and 1960s because of a series of injuries to players most noticeably in FA Cup Finals. The season's major spectacle was being spoiled. So, finally, reluctant domestic legislators were persuaded to make the change.
At first, a single player substitution was allowed, but only if another on-field player was injured. Of course, it didn't take coaches long to cotton on to the fact that if they wanted to make a change, anyway, all they had to do was give the nod for the selected on-field player to sit down on the pitch, rub his knee, thigh or ankle, and put on a pained expression. Thus the referee had no course but to wave the substitute on.
Naturally, it all became a bit of a farce, and the 'injury rule' approach became unsustainable. By the time the feigning of injury had become ingrained in the game the rules were changed again. Now you could make a change at any time. Then two changes, and then three. Meanwhile, the choice of allowable possible alternatives on the bench rose to seven. So football was no longer a team game, but a squad game, and pretending to be injured had become a tradition.
Perhaps some of the Premiership clubs really should become bolder and, if the Cup is such a terrible bind for them, seek to withdraw completely from the competition. But of course, they daren't. Ask most football fans which they would prefer their club to win - the FA Cup, or a European competition - and my bet (sorry, I'm against all betting in a sporting context) is that most would vote for the FA Cup every day of the week.
Tuesday 7 January 2014
THE BRAINS TRUST
Readers sufficiently long in the tooth to remember the Second World War may also recall listening to The Brains Trust. The wireless, along with the newspaper - in our case, the News Chronicle - was the main source of information during the blackout, and our oval-shaped Philips radio had the added attraction that, as in countless other homes, it brought the family together around the fireside or at the meal table.
You listened together, chewed over the information together and sometimes even laughed together. Thus The Brains Trust fitted comfortably into that parcel of essential listening which, for us, also included the Six O'Clock News, ITMA, Workers' Playtime, Variety Bandbox, and Arthur Askey or Vic Oliver.
The Brains Trust was invented somewhere in the bowels of the BBC during December, 1940, at a time when thousands of men and women all over the country were on duty guarding against the threat of invasion, and it was devised to give them something to listen to, laugh at, and talk about. The idea was that four or five experts, with a question master and chairman, would discuss subjects and questions sent in by the general public.
In fact, nearly a third of the population listened in on a regular basis. And fascinating listening it was, too, the programme slowly evolving into a sort of witty and oft-times argumentative university of the airwaves. Quentin Reynolds, Dr CEM Joad, Julian Huxley and Cmdr AB Campbell: they were some of the names on everyone's lips, along with the name of the question master, of course. Donald McCullough.
Among many other things, Donald was a writer. He also became known nationwide for the patient and amusing way he handled the on-air squabbles of Joad and Huxley, and still managed to keep the show on the road. When I met him in the mid-1970s, a quarter of a century after The Brains Trust's run had ended on the wireless, he had retired to Norfolk and was living on the north Norfolk coast within sound of the sea.
He was a dapper and genial host. Rather delightfully, tea and tiny sandwiches were offered. Then he answered every question, reminisced about being Roy Plomley's guest on Desert Island Discs in 1943 (choosing, among others, Will Fyfe, Tchaikovsky, Fritz Kreisler, and the Polish Army Choir), took me to task for momentarily being unable to recall Fougasse (a popular illustrator and cartoonist, particularly during the 1940s), and came to the door and waved me off when the interview was over.
Before I left he also gave me a little book he had written some years before, How to Run a Brains Trust, published in 1948 on economy standard paper, and within which he had inscribed, 'To Bruce Robinson, with grateful good wishes. Donald McCullough, Flagstaff House, Overy Staithe, 15th of May, 1976.'
Donald McCullough, so I believe, died in King's Lynn in 1978, and he deserves to be remembered as one of that hallowed coterie of public figures and entertainers who brought pleasure and enlightenment to so many millions of people during some very dark days indeed.
Readers sufficiently long in the tooth to remember the Second World War may also recall listening to The Brains Trust. The wireless, along with the newspaper - in our case, the News Chronicle - was the main source of information during the blackout, and our oval-shaped Philips radio had the added attraction that, as in countless other homes, it brought the family together around the fireside or at the meal table.
You listened together, chewed over the information together and sometimes even laughed together. Thus The Brains Trust fitted comfortably into that parcel of essential listening which, for us, also included the Six O'Clock News, ITMA, Workers' Playtime, Variety Bandbox, and Arthur Askey or Vic Oliver.
The Brains Trust was invented somewhere in the bowels of the BBC during December, 1940, at a time when thousands of men and women all over the country were on duty guarding against the threat of invasion, and it was devised to give them something to listen to, laugh at, and talk about. The idea was that four or five experts, with a question master and chairman, would discuss subjects and questions sent in by the general public.
In fact, nearly a third of the population listened in on a regular basis. And fascinating listening it was, too, the programme slowly evolving into a sort of witty and oft-times argumentative university of the airwaves. Quentin Reynolds, Dr CEM Joad, Julian Huxley and Cmdr AB Campbell: they were some of the names on everyone's lips, along with the name of the question master, of course. Donald McCullough.
Among many other things, Donald was a writer. He also became known nationwide for the patient and amusing way he handled the on-air squabbles of Joad and Huxley, and still managed to keep the show on the road. When I met him in the mid-1970s, a quarter of a century after The Brains Trust's run had ended on the wireless, he had retired to Norfolk and was living on the north Norfolk coast within sound of the sea.
He was a dapper and genial host. Rather delightfully, tea and tiny sandwiches were offered. Then he answered every question, reminisced about being Roy Plomley's guest on Desert Island Discs in 1943 (choosing, among others, Will Fyfe, Tchaikovsky, Fritz Kreisler, and the Polish Army Choir), took me to task for momentarily being unable to recall Fougasse (a popular illustrator and cartoonist, particularly during the 1940s), and came to the door and waved me off when the interview was over.
Before I left he also gave me a little book he had written some years before, How to Run a Brains Trust, published in 1948 on economy standard paper, and within which he had inscribed, 'To Bruce Robinson, with grateful good wishes. Donald McCullough, Flagstaff House, Overy Staithe, 15th of May, 1976.'
Donald McCullough, so I believe, died in King's Lynn in 1978, and he deserves to be remembered as one of that hallowed coterie of public figures and entertainers who brought pleasure and enlightenment to so many millions of people during some very dark days indeed.
Friday 3 January 2014
HOT METAL
In his later years, Benjamin Franklin, the American polymath, owned a number of properties in central Philadelphia. His main house stood a short distance from a main street in a garden shaded by a mulberry tree and accessed through a cobbled archway-cum-tunnel. The tunnel still pierces his terrace row of business premises, but Ben's house has gone, replaced by a 'ghost,' a metal-framed outline of the original. There is an underground Franklin museum, ingeniously inserted under the plot where his house once stood; but some of his other properties are still there, in that streetside terrace. One of them was a posting, or mail, office. Another was his printing works.
We're years away from hot metal printing here, the 18th century type being hand-set, but some of the techniques and tools are essentially the same, such as a 'stone,' where the pages are still laid out, inkers, piles of proofs, and a general organised untidiness which was the mark of a good print works. And the smell was there, too. I recognised it as soon as I went in. Ink and paper, presses and dust, all lovingly reconstructed and still used daily by staff dressed as in Franklin's day.
Actually, what they produce now are tourist copies of the Declaration of Independence. But by using a traditional typeface with hand-set qualities on a slightly coarse paper, the sheets appear from under the hand-press as though they were actually as old as the hills.
Print works can be exciting places, and newspaper print rooms - with hand-set type replaced by hot, smelly, tinkling Linotype machines - were the most exciting of all. As a sports sub-editor on a regional daily newspaper, working on two broadsheet pages a night, we spent a couple of hours each evening in Norwich's Redwell Street press room seeing pages made-up and locked into their forme, the metal page frame; and then seeing the corrected pages 'off stone.' It was deadlines and disasters all the way (metal type in a metal frame did not bend, reduce or expand, and you either got it right or you didn't) and by and large I loved it.
And here, in Philadelphia, after all those years, was that smell once again. Ink and paper and dust. Galley racks and columns of text. In Redwell Street, of course, there was also a foundry and a block department, a flong press and massive printing machines which caused the old building to shiver and hum when they ran at top speed. And added to that, the heat, smell and sound of banks of Linotype machines.
The company I worked for still hosts a pensioners' Christmas dinner, and in the early years after retirement we used to look around the room and think, never mind computers, we've still got enough people here who know how to produce a hot metal newspaper. But alas, possibly not any more. Hot metal print men are now becoming almost as rare as tobacconist shops and house-to-house milk deliveries. Which is a shame, in a way, because memories of an art forms are being eroded and lost.
For me, however, hot metal meant Bodoni and Garamond, NIBS and ragged right, indent right and a nut indent each end, busted headlines counts, wonky page layouts, Gloy and scissors, and the tension of a ever ticking clock.
Of course, the old NGA print union made absolutely sure non-members didn't touch anything within their domain, but inevitably you got your hands dirty. Pick up a pile of editorial proofs and you got ink smudges on your fingers. As for the smell, which is a smell as distinctive as a pile of old books, it never leaves you, even if the galleys and flongs have.
In his later years, Benjamin Franklin, the American polymath, owned a number of properties in central Philadelphia. His main house stood a short distance from a main street in a garden shaded by a mulberry tree and accessed through a cobbled archway-cum-tunnel. The tunnel still pierces his terrace row of business premises, but Ben's house has gone, replaced by a 'ghost,' a metal-framed outline of the original. There is an underground Franklin museum, ingeniously inserted under the plot where his house once stood; but some of his other properties are still there, in that streetside terrace. One of them was a posting, or mail, office. Another was his printing works.
We're years away from hot metal printing here, the 18th century type being hand-set, but some of the techniques and tools are essentially the same, such as a 'stone,' where the pages are still laid out, inkers, piles of proofs, and a general organised untidiness which was the mark of a good print works. And the smell was there, too. I recognised it as soon as I went in. Ink and paper, presses and dust, all lovingly reconstructed and still used daily by staff dressed as in Franklin's day.
Actually, what they produce now are tourist copies of the Declaration of Independence. But by using a traditional typeface with hand-set qualities on a slightly coarse paper, the sheets appear from under the hand-press as though they were actually as old as the hills.
Print works can be exciting places, and newspaper print rooms - with hand-set type replaced by hot, smelly, tinkling Linotype machines - were the most exciting of all. As a sports sub-editor on a regional daily newspaper, working on two broadsheet pages a night, we spent a couple of hours each evening in Norwich's Redwell Street press room seeing pages made-up and locked into their forme, the metal page frame; and then seeing the corrected pages 'off stone.' It was deadlines and disasters all the way (metal type in a metal frame did not bend, reduce or expand, and you either got it right or you didn't) and by and large I loved it.
And here, in Philadelphia, after all those years, was that smell once again. Ink and paper and dust. Galley racks and columns of text. In Redwell Street, of course, there was also a foundry and a block department, a flong press and massive printing machines which caused the old building to shiver and hum when they ran at top speed. And added to that, the heat, smell and sound of banks of Linotype machines.
The company I worked for still hosts a pensioners' Christmas dinner, and in the early years after retirement we used to look around the room and think, never mind computers, we've still got enough people here who know how to produce a hot metal newspaper. But alas, possibly not any more. Hot metal print men are now becoming almost as rare as tobacconist shops and house-to-house milk deliveries. Which is a shame, in a way, because memories of an art forms are being eroded and lost.
For me, however, hot metal meant Bodoni and Garamond, NIBS and ragged right, indent right and a nut indent each end, busted headlines counts, wonky page layouts, Gloy and scissors, and the tension of a ever ticking clock.
Of course, the old NGA print union made absolutely sure non-members didn't touch anything within their domain, but inevitably you got your hands dirty. Pick up a pile of editorial proofs and you got ink smudges on your fingers. As for the smell, which is a smell as distinctive as a pile of old books, it never leaves you, even if the galleys and flongs have.
Wednesday 1 January 2014
MEMORY UPDATE
Is it really possible to superimpose a newer memory over an older recollection? And is there any benefit in trying to do so? These thoughts have occurred to me occasionally over the last 30 years after, quite suddenly, I was confronted by the awfulness of conditions endured by members of the Norfolk Regiment - and many others - in the Japanese prison camps of Singapore, Malaya and Siam, and on the Burma-Siam railway, during the Second World War.
In 1982, on the 40th anniversary of the surrender of Allied forces in Singapore, I was fortunate to be one of the helpers escorting a party of some 65 former prisoners of the Japanese, widows, sons and daughters of former prisoners, and a handful of other interested parties, back to the locations of their incarceration.
We flew to Singapore where we stayed for a few days (visiting Changi prison, Selarang Barracks, and Kranji cemetery) before flying to Bangkok, where we boarded two coaches which took us up-country to the Kwai river, calling at a number of places the veterans knew including Tarso, which in those days was as far as the old railway went. Here, the rusting lines and rotting sleepers, which the men had originally laid, simply petered out in the jungle on the edge of the settlement.
The entire trip was unrelentingly emotional (one veteran, alas, died in the hotel overnight in Bangkok) for the former prisoners and their relatives and descendants, who found themselves, particularly in Bangkok, surrounded by reminders of the Japanese. There were two widows, I recall, visiting their husbands' graves for the first time, and one son visiting the grave of a father he could barely remember. And so on. It was heartbreaking.
Then another major problem arose. On every single day of the tour there was someone who was dreading returing to the next location listed on our itinerary. For example, we arrived in Kanchanaburi knowing that three or four veterans were already upset because of a forthcoming scheduled visit across the river to the former base camp at Chungkai. They remembered it as the cholera camp, a place of nightmares.
Recollections of this and other places had haunted these men since the 1940s, and throughout the subsequent years they could not get the pictures out of their minds. It had tainted their lives and their marriages. It was the biggest problem of all, they said. Memories.
In the end they all went to Chungkai, and no-one opted out. And here, as elsewhere, change took hold. Changi prison in Singapore, for example, was still being used. The veterans waved at prisoners standing at the windows, who waved back. 'Crikey,' said one incredulous veteran, 'there's a chap standing at the cell window I used to stand at!' And when they finally got to Kranji or Chungkai or Kanchanaburi, they found not horror, but beauty.
Trimmed lawns, immaculate flowerbeds, trees and bushes smothered with scented blossoms, and gleaming white grave markers in parks tended with diligence and respect by their cheerful Thai caretakers. And so, gradually, these new scenes became dominant, and while they did not totally vanquish the recollected horrors they at least push them lower down the list.
'If I think of Chungkai now,' said one on the long flight home, 'I think of the lawns and the flowers.' Not the horror and the brutality. Without exception, they agreed that the journey had somehow helped them to at least start to deal with problems that had haunted them since the War.
Is it really possible to superimpose a newer memory over an older recollection? And is there any benefit in trying to do so? These thoughts have occurred to me occasionally over the last 30 years after, quite suddenly, I was confronted by the awfulness of conditions endured by members of the Norfolk Regiment - and many others - in the Japanese prison camps of Singapore, Malaya and Siam, and on the Burma-Siam railway, during the Second World War.
In 1982, on the 40th anniversary of the surrender of Allied forces in Singapore, I was fortunate to be one of the helpers escorting a party of some 65 former prisoners of the Japanese, widows, sons and daughters of former prisoners, and a handful of other interested parties, back to the locations of their incarceration.
We flew to Singapore where we stayed for a few days (visiting Changi prison, Selarang Barracks, and Kranji cemetery) before flying to Bangkok, where we boarded two coaches which took us up-country to the Kwai river, calling at a number of places the veterans knew including Tarso, which in those days was as far as the old railway went. Here, the rusting lines and rotting sleepers, which the men had originally laid, simply petered out in the jungle on the edge of the settlement.
The entire trip was unrelentingly emotional (one veteran, alas, died in the hotel overnight in Bangkok) for the former prisoners and their relatives and descendants, who found themselves, particularly in Bangkok, surrounded by reminders of the Japanese. There were two widows, I recall, visiting their husbands' graves for the first time, and one son visiting the grave of a father he could barely remember. And so on. It was heartbreaking.
Then another major problem arose. On every single day of the tour there was someone who was dreading returing to the next location listed on our itinerary. For example, we arrived in Kanchanaburi knowing that three or four veterans were already upset because of a forthcoming scheduled visit across the river to the former base camp at Chungkai. They remembered it as the cholera camp, a place of nightmares.
Recollections of this and other places had haunted these men since the 1940s, and throughout the subsequent years they could not get the pictures out of their minds. It had tainted their lives and their marriages. It was the biggest problem of all, they said. Memories.
In the end they all went to Chungkai, and no-one opted out. And here, as elsewhere, change took hold. Changi prison in Singapore, for example, was still being used. The veterans waved at prisoners standing at the windows, who waved back. 'Crikey,' said one incredulous veteran, 'there's a chap standing at the cell window I used to stand at!' And when they finally got to Kranji or Chungkai or Kanchanaburi, they found not horror, but beauty.
Trimmed lawns, immaculate flowerbeds, trees and bushes smothered with scented blossoms, and gleaming white grave markers in parks tended with diligence and respect by their cheerful Thai caretakers. And so, gradually, these new scenes became dominant, and while they did not totally vanquish the recollected horrors they at least push them lower down the list.
'If I think of Chungkai now,' said one on the long flight home, 'I think of the lawns and the flowers.' Not the horror and the brutality. Without exception, they agreed that the journey had somehow helped them to at least start to deal with problems that had haunted them since the War.
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