Here’s my visual impression of the Horse Fair at Stow-on-the-Wold, a famous gathering each year where Romanies and travellers traditionally meet to trade their horses. The post is a tribute based on my own visit to the fair, fuelled by a fascination with such gatherings, rather than any specialist knowledge. We visited quite some years ago, and it may have changed somewhat since – though looking at other blogs and videos, not too much, it seems!
A chance to try out and indeed show off the pony traps, sometimes known as the ‘flash’
I have always been fascinated by accounts of gypsies. As a young student, I listened at first hand to folk song experts Charles Parker (BBC Producer of the Radio Ballads) and his singer friend Ewan McColl talk about their experiences of collecting songs from Romanies and travellers. They laughed affectionately about ‘Queen Caroline Hughes’, for instance; Queen Caroline was paid by them per song, and so she craftily mixed together verses from different ballads, producing new ones on the spot! The Ballad of ‘The Travelling People’ had just been recorded, and is still a classic production today. The most iconic song from it – ‘Born in the Middle of the Afternoon‘, which you can listen to via the You Tube link below. And a good write-up of the making of the ballad itself can be found here.
Trading on their names – I did indeed know Charles very well – I visited their friends the Stuarts of Perthshire, a family of settled travellers with warm hearts and hospitality for all comers. Later, I avidly read Juliette Baraicli-Levi’s first hand account of living alongside gypsies and studying their herbal lore. (I am saving Juliette Baraicli-Levy herself for a future ‘Wild Women’ blog, so will only mention her in passing here. Her herbal handbooks are still used as sources of wise information and advice.)
I’ve also sought out the chance to visit nomads in Turkey, Western China, Uzbekistan and Kirghistan, and retain cherished impressions of these. And I have treasured the experiences of watching women weave on portable looms, drinking ‘kumiss’ (fermented mare’s milk – very nice, actually) and climbing on a Kirghiz horse, ready in my imagination at least to gallop off into the rolling hills. Ah well!
With nomad Kirghiz horsemen by Lake Issyk-Kul, Kirghiztan
So my qualifications for writing about nomads or gypsies are personal, and wouldn’t hold water in any serious studies of the culture. But I can share some of these impressions with you, with my photographs of Stow Horse Fair, taken on a visit over a decade ago, and also make a few comparisons to other cultures.
There are usually a few traditional gypsy wagons or ‘vardos’ at the fair, but not many on our visit.
Why Stow-on-the-Wold?
Stow-on-the-Wold today is a small and charming town which has long served as a junction for several ancient routes traversing the Cotswolds, the hills in Gloucestershire and beyond. It was always well-placed, therefore, for trading. Some of the earliest goods carried along these roads were salt, fish, iron and charcoal, and its famous Fair goes back nearly a thousand years, with its official charter granted in 1107. The medieval wool trade boosted the Cotswold economy, and Stow became a centre too for not only local cloth and leather goods, but exotic imports such as silks and spices. (Another contender for the place which marks ‘the end of the Silk Road’, perhaps?)
After the wool trade declined, horses became the all-important commodity, and the October Stow Fair (held on or around the feast day of Edward the Confessor) established itself as one of the prime horse fairs in the country. Although the main horse sale has now been transferred elsewhere, this doesn’t seem to have stopped the private wheeling and dealing which was certainly apparent when we visited the fair. (You can read more about Stow and its fairs here .)
Below: horses put through their paces, tried out for riding and for pulling the different types of gypsy carts
A Gypsy Gathering
Today it’s also one of the major gypsy fairs and get-togethers nationwide, along with the better-known Appleby Fair in Yorkshire, and the Midsummer Fair in Cambridge. However, the Cambridge fair wasn’t a horse fair as such, as far as I’m aware, unlike Stow and Appleby, and has declined somewhat in recent years. To digress slightly, when I lived in Cambridge in the 1970s, at fair time the eponymous Midsummer Common was always crowded with a mix of showmen, travellers and locals. Stalls competed with dazzling displays of sparkling crystal, Crown Derby china, and elaborate ornaments of horses and the like, which were all beloved by the gypsies. It was a funfair too, where I was delighted to find some very ancient slot machines including what was most probably an Edwardian ‘What the Butler Saw’ peepshow. Showmen families were prominent, as well as gypsies, and there was always a special and well-attended outdoor Sunday service for all the travellers there.
Once, we saw Romanies of a kind that I have never encountered before or since – dark, lithe folk, talking in their own language, and squatting in in a circle to share their news. Were these perhaps ‘true’ Romanies, maybe from Eastern Europe, or Spain? British gypsies and travellers are only branches of a much larger clan – Juliette de Baraicli Levy writes about her time with traditional Spanish gypsies, along with those she met in the New Forest in England, and even in New York – which, surprisingly, hosted large colonies of gypsies earlier in the 20th century.
And in southern France too, the town of Les Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer hosts gypsy gatherings to celebrate the Black Madonna who lives in the crypt of the church. It’s a town well worth visiting, as Robert and I have done, but we haven’t yet seen it at festival time – we’ve been tempted to travel there then, but I’m not sure we’d stand the pace now! Revelry continues 24 hours a day…
The haunting face of ‘Sara’ the Black Madonna, patron saint of gypsies, at the church of Les-Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer in the Camargue, France. (Author’s photograph). Thousands of gypsies pay homage to her, both at the festival and throughout the year.
The Deal
There is indeed something universal about the trading that goes on among nomads, travellers and gypsies. I’ve observed striking similarities between the deals being done among the Uighur people of Western China, who I visited in the 1990s, and the horse-dealing in Stow. Look how intent the men’s faces are in both cases – keenly observant, guarded, speculative, concentrating fiercely on the potential deal to be done. And giving nothing away until they’re ready to seal the deal.
The pace can be fast in both venues too. In Kashgar, I nearly got knocked down by a Uighur horseman galloping his prospective purchase down the track. It was a bit like stepping inadvertently onto a racecourse. This young man at Stow seems pretty determined too.
The women of the fair
Admiring babies – note the old-style pram, which is still prized by travellers. The adornment of the pram can be a serious matter too, where the baby can be shown off in splendour. You can even find ‘Romany Pram’ as a category on EBay – eg at https://www.ebay.co.uk/b/bn_7023493960.
And what of the women? Well, many of them were dressed to the nines, and plainly enjoyed showing off their babies and catching up with the latest family news. But it wasn’t all cuddly infants and fancy outfits – as we stood at the top of a slope, looking down across the busy fairground, we noticed a sudden eddy of disturbance below, parting the crowds. A fight had broken out between two women, and people close by formed an impromptu wrestling ring for them. . The spectators rallied to the cause, shouting and cheering on two women who were going for each other hell for leather. For what, we shall never know – a rival love interest? An insult to the family? Faithfulness to a husband and loyalty to family are key principles among gypsy women. But we can be sure that, whatever the cause, these are fierce ladies, not to be taken lightly.
Above: The downward path where the fight took place and below, women taking time out together in the town centre
Below is a video, well worth watching, about how the Stow Fair has changed over the last few decades.
All such gatherings of nomads, traders and gypsies are likely to change over time, with a likelihood in the modern period of curtailing their age-old fairs and markets. I have visited the great Sunday market of Kashgar twice, but its splendour has since been diminished by the more recent persecution and forced detention of Uighurs in Western China. And a friend who used to visit Stow fair many years ago, remembers caravans parked all the way along the main road, a magical sight in the evenings when every van had a fire lit beside it, and people sat round to tell their tales. That practice has been stopped, and parking is strictly regulated now. Locals are not always happy to have their town taken over and new curbs are brought in.
The roadside fires may have gone, but the horses and the faces of character remain
But I hope the tradition of the Stow Horse Fair will carry on from one generation to the other. And if the opportunity is there, I may go and take another peek in October 2024!
In the last post, I suggested one way in which we can get to know our ancestors, by plotting the relationships between us, and contemplating the circle which they form around us. This current post now moves away from the charting of ancestry, to focusing on some of its spiritual aspects, and considering whether our line of ancestry may still play an active part in our lives. As we now head towards Halloween, based on the ancient Celtic festival of the dead, it’s the season to speculate more about the possible dimensions of life and death, and how we may connect to these.
I’ll also mention the role of shamanism in connecting us to our ancestors. Shamanism is, in essence, an ancient belief system of inter-penetrating worlds of spirit, in which we can play an active role. It includes both animate and inanimate forms of life, in modern terminology, and the realms of both the dead and the living. The ‘religion’ of shamanism – using the term loosely, for there are many versions of it – may once have been widespread throughout the world in its various forms, fundamental to many if not most cultures, including the greater part of Europe. And it contains the belief that journeying between these worlds is possible, often with the assistance of a shaman. Although such travelling must be done with care, it can help us to access knowledge, including foreknowledge, the power of healing, and positive forces which can guide us through life in this middle world.
Birds are often thought to represent the flight of the soul – (illustration by Helen Cann, with artist’s permission)
The otherworld of the ancestors
In the Western world, although this shamanistic world view has largely been abandoned, there are still traces of it in folk lore and myth, as reflected in this ancient poem from the north of Britain. It reveals that a soul must travel a particular path at the time of death, to make the transition between worlds and reach its new dwelling place. Here in the poem, this sanctuary is that of Christ, combining the older world view with that of Christianity. (See Jeff Duntemann’s post ‘Understanding the Lyke Wake Dirge’ for a translation into modern English.)
A Lyke-Wake Dirge
This ae neet, this ae neet, (night)
Every neet and all,
Fire an' fleet an' candleleet,
And Christ receive thy saul. (soul)
If thou from here our wake has passed,
Every neet and all,
To Whinny Moor thou comes at last,
And Christ receive thy saul.
And if ever thou gavest hosen or shoen, (shoes)
Every neet and all,
Then sit ye down and put them on,
And Christ receive thy saul.
But if hosen or shoen thou ne'er gavest nane, (none)
Every neet and all,
The whinny will prick thee to thy bare bane,
And Christ receive thy saul.
From Whinny Moor when thou mayst pass,
Every neet and all,
To Brig o' Dread thou comest at last,
And Christ receive thy saul.
From Brig o' Dread when thou may'st pass,
Every neet and all,
To Purgatory thou comest at last,
And Christ receive thy saul.
And if ever thou gavest meat or drink,
Every neet and all,
The fire will never make thee shrink,
And Christ receive thy saul.
But if meat nor drink thou ne'er gav'st nane,
Every neet and all,
The fire will burn thee to thy bare bane,
And Christ receive thy saul.
This ae neet, this ae neet,
Every neet and all,
Fire an' fleet an' candleleet,
And Christ receive thy saul.
As far as I know, there are no tunes extant to this old rhyme, althought various arrangements of it have been made. But this recording made by the Young Tradition folk group in 1965 resonates with the spare harmonies of earlier periods, and sounds like a ritual chant as it announces the path of death which must be trodden. This is likely to have been its original function, chanted over a dying or dead person, to guide their soul on its way.
And if you’re up for another song, this one was composed in recent years, but commemorates another very old custom. ‘The Old Lych Way’ tells of how a body in a coffin on Dartmoor had to be carried right from its home parish, perhaps a tiny hamlet on the moor, to the church at Lydford, which alone was authorised for burial. It could be many miles, for the bearers and the mourners to trudge. The song, by Topsham musician and friend Chris Hoban, is here performed by his colleagues in the folk group ‘Show of Hands’.
And after that, let’s move on from the death of the human body to what might be your ancestors’ presence in another realm.
The long line of ancestors
For many of us who embark on researching family history, it becomes more than just creating charts and checking out parish records. It can bring a sense of a living connection with our ancestors. When I was gathering material for my book Growing Your Family Tree, I conducted a survey for readers of a family history magazine, enquiring about their experiences of researching their family tree. Many of the respondents reported that after doing the ground work, they felt their ancestors were in some sense becoming ‘alive’ to them. And some also mentioned that strange occurrences began to happen during their research, such as unexpectedly discovering new family connections, as if the ancestors were eager to reveal themselves. It seems that when we start paying attention to our ancestors, various synchronicities and surprising events may happen.
The Welsh Voices
Standing among the ruins of the abbey at Abbeycwmhir, in remote mid-Wales, from where my Welsh line of ancestry primarily comes from .
Here’s one of my own experiences of this kind:
It happened one summer night, a few years ago. I had been working on my Welsh line of ancestry, trying to figure out the branch of the tree which I could now trace back to my 3x great grandfather, Edward Owens of Abbeycwmhir, the soldier in the Napoleonic Wars.
All that night, my sleep was disturbed by what seemed like a babble of voices. I heard people chattering insistently, and I knew that they were my Welsh ancestors. I could not make out what they were saying, but I had the distinct impression that they wanted to be ‘found’ again, and that they wanted their story to be told. Edward’s own insistence came through, and I inferred that his special wish was for his prowess as a soldier in the Napoleonic Wars to be remembered, and perhaps for his medal to be found again.
This might seem like fantasy. However, it made a profound impression on me, and within a couple of months extraordinary things started to happen. A seemingly random hit on a website for a Welsh chapel led me to finding two separate lots of new cousins, also direct descendants of Edward Owens, whose families were still living in the same region as my ancestors in mid-Wales. I had thought previously that everyone had moved away from the area. When I met up with Harold, my third cousin, he shook my hand, looked deep into my eyes, and said, ‘You’re the first member of the family to come back for a hundred years.’
I was swept into a whirlwind of activity on that first expedition. With these two families I looked at photos of my ancestors that I had never seen before, heard anecdotes about their lives, including those relating to a 2 x great aunt who was a midwife and a herbalist, and shown of the local places associated with them. I also saw pieces of furniture actually made by our joint 2x great grandfather, who turned his hand to cabinet-making as the small stipend he received as a minister couldn’t support his family. Beautifully made, of polished oak, the cupboard and two tables took my breath away as I touched the work that my ancestor had created. After this, research went like greased lightning in the Powys Archives, and I was also able to trace the existence of Edward senior’s medal up until its last publicly-recorded sale in the 1970s. The speed at which all this unrolled was incredible. I felt that I had unlocked a door to the past, and that the wish of the ancestors to be known and acknowledged by their descendants had a kind of volition of its own, which fuelled my search.
All this has fed into my current network of family connections. Cousin Harold and I have kept up our acquaintance, exchanging cards and phone calls every Christmas. Likewise, I keep contact with others of the new-found cousins, one of whom ended up living very close to us for a while. My only sadness is that my mother never knew about this branch of the family. For the last thirty-five years of her life, she lived in Church Stretton in Shropshire, which was less than thirty miles from her cousins over the hills in Wales. She would have loved to meet her relatives there!
Cousin Harold and his wife Vera, standing outside their cottage in Kerry, near Newtown in Wales, close to the one once inhabited by my great grandfather
The Ancestors and our Spiritual Heritage
We are unusual in the Western world, where the prevailing culture doesn’t generally consider the ancestors to be a direct influence in our lives. Our deceased relatives are remembered fondly (or otherwise!), stories may be told about their lives, and graves tended for a while. But that’s generally as far as it goes. Many if not most other cultures around the world, however, consider the ancestors to be a living presence. Although they may inhabit another dimension, their world and ours can interact. This may at first strike the Western mind as naïve, or reeking of old-school Spiritualism, but if you study these different belief systems, it becomes apparent that they can be subtle and sophisticated in their appreciation of different forms of consciousness.
Connecting with the ancestors at a temple in Georgetown, Penang
And a sense of this interdependence can also be used for specific purposes. For instance, in Tuva, Siberia, if a man or woman feels called to become a shaman, they may try to draw on their connection with a particular ancestor who was a shaman, and link in to their power and knowledge as a source for their own initiation. Unlike some New Age perceptions of shamanism, it’s often a calling that a Siberian would rather not experience. The commonest way of realising that they are being compelled to become a shaman is through falling into a period of illness or intense suffering. It’s more a case of giving into the demand, rather than seeking it out. And in which case, a contact with an ancestor who was also a shaman may be the best way to tread the right path and set the seal on it.
In shamanism, drumming and chanting can be a way to communicate with the ancestors. This also means opening up the threefold world, and going beyond our human ‘middle world’. Spirits of the dead usually inhabit the world below, and sky spirits or transcended spirits inhabit the world above, according to this shamanic world view. And once this connection is established in a conscious way, the shaman has a pathway into the world of the spirits. It means that he or she can then regularly practice rituals to awaken the connection, which serves as a channel for wisdom, healing or prophecy, according to whatever is required by those who need their help.
The shamans’ ritual; Herel and his wife conducting a blessing ceremony in Tuva, Siberia
The Way Forward, with a contribution from R. J. Stewart
Shamanism is thought to be the most ancient of religions, and interest in it is growing again in the modern world. There is an eagerness among many spiritual seekers to work with their own form of shamanism. But how do you go about this, and does it work? Can it be done by blindly copying the practices of existing traditional shamans – in Siberia, South America or Africa, for instance? Perhaps a more authentic way forward is to re-connect with our own ancestors, and learn from them if we can. Author R. J. Stewart, an expert in Celtic mythology and the Western tradition of magic, has kindly contributed this post which sheds light on a controversial question:
R. J. Stewart
Between the late 1980s and the mid 90s I had several meetings with Native American Elders, often to compare what is known as “Celtic” tradition today, with aspects of their multifold traditions. When the first contingent turned up unexpectedly at a talk I was giving in a bookstore in Greenwich, Connecticut, I felt as if I was on trial…as indeed I was. Subsequent private meetings relaxed into a degree of mutual trust, resulting in a potential invitation to join the World Council of Tribal Elders, to represent Celtic tradition, in a forthcoming gathering in Australia. The elders were especially critical of New Age shamanism, which they saw as form of alternative popular psychology, and not truly shamanistic. We agreed on that.
As I was unable (though not unwilling) to attend, the invitation was never formalized. A few memories of our meetings stand out for me, and we seemed to confirm to one another that a proportion of my Scottish ancestral traditions shared certain truths and magical practices with theirs. We talked a lot about revenge and forgiveness, ancestors and spirits. Two examples will have to suffice here:
1 – Spirits through the fire. During a convivial meeting with Grandmother Kitty the log fire exploded into extra flame very dramatically then died right back only to resurge, three times. As in old Gaelic tradition, such manifestations are not commented upon when they occur, but silently acknowledged, perhaps with a slight nod of the head. The next day her apprentice (a mature woman) said “Grandmother instructed me to ask you how many spirits came through the fire last night ?”. I answered “There were three spirits that came through the fire… I sensed them, but could not tell what they intended”. That seemed to be acceptable. There was no “teaching” no “wisdom transmission” just mutual silent acknowledgement. At one point, though, Grandmother had said something that I could not fail to forget: “We do not want your people adopting our traditions. You have your own traditions to feed and care for. When your people are mature again within their own traditions, we can all come together in peace at last”.
2 – Ancestors: on another occasion, Big Toe Hears Crow looked at me and laughed. He said “We feel sorry for you white folks…you only have your miserable human ancestors. We have birds, animals, forests of trees, and even entire mountains”. He had a habit of humorous provocative utterances. And again: I was talking about the Wheel of the Year (at the bookstore mentioned above) and asked if anyone in the audience had examples in their own understanding or tradition. Big Toe quietly said “ Well, just like you, we have the East and the West, and then..hmm…yes… there is the South and the North. And there is a Buffalo in there somewhere, but the Buffalo moves around a lot”.
Both of the elders that I mention here have passed on into the spirit worlds in the years between then and now. Not all of my ancestors are miserable, except perhaps some of the Calvinists. One “went native” in South Africa in the late 19th century, where he was renowned at spirit healing. He surely found a wandering Buffalo.
Note: The correct bovid name is “Bison” for North America, and “Buffalo” for Africa. But the ancestors do not seem to care.
Books by R.J. Stewart include The UnderWorld Initiation, The Well of Light, and The Spirit Cord
Involving the Ancestors
I have written elsewhere about my own visit to a wise shaman in Kizyl, Siberia, in 2005 – see ‘Meeting the Shaman in Siberia’.
During this session, with chanting and drumming, he endeavoured to drive out the ‘bad energy’ or misfortune, which he identified as lodging in my shoulder –indeed, I did tend to ‘shoulder’ burdens. I can interpret this in a straightforward way, since I’d had a period of trouble and ill health. However, just as the ritual involved Herel connecting with his own ancestors to help him, so I sense that my own ancestors may have been involved too.
Shaman Herel in his consulting room at Kizyl, Tuva in Siberia
For several years before this trip, I had been researching my family history, which was mostly a pleasurable experience, with stimulating discoveries. However, quite early on in the process I had a different kind of experience, which I can only describe as a spontaneous vision happening on the borders of sleeping and waking. It seemed that a whole procession of dark, shadowy forms was marching right through me, coming in through my back and emerging from my chest. They seemed oppressive, somewhat sinister, and even threatening. I sensed that they had emerged from my ancestral past, and that something connected with fate was unfolding. It was a time when my own life balance was shifting in a profound way.
However, after the visit to Siberia some seven or eight years later, I returned to the UK via Moscow, and en route recorded in my diary:
Woke up 5am after 7 hours solid sleep – with an impression of my relatives and ancestors at my right shoulder, flowing out of it in a wavy shape like a kind of stream. A warm and light quality to it.
So perhaps the shaman’s ritual had actually relieved that heaviness in me, removing the weight of a negative aspect of my ancestry? At any rate, it certainly seemed that something had now been transformed.
The paths of ancestry may run deeper through our lives than we imagine, and it may be understood better than we might think by the ancient practices of shamanism. I can only speculate how that works – whether, to put it in a rather crude way, a shamanic ritual can work like unblocking a clogged conduit, so that the water can run free and clear again. Perhaps it helps to balance out energies, as anyone’s ancestry is bound to be a mixture of forces, some outdated and needing to be left behind.
At any rate, the season of Halloween is an appropriate one in which to remember and honour our ancestors. Amidst the jolly, scary ghouls and witches trick-or-treating round the town, perhaps we can take time also to quietly recall those who have come before us on the ancestral path, and to cherish their memory. They are not lost, for indeed, we all share one ‘common life’.
A modern take on Halloween from Topsham, Devon above, with an older depiction of an ancestor from Easter Island below. Perhaps they are not so different after all.
Acknowledgements:
With thanks to R. J. Stewart for permission to include his account of conversing with the Native American Elders.
And to Herel, the shaman of Kizyl, Tuva, who remains a bright presence in my mind.
Plus the organisation known as Saros, which explored notions of ‘common mind’ with the motto that ‘there is always somewhere further to go’. Its history and purpose can be discovered here. Offshoots of Saros can be found here
For the month of October, I have prepared two posts on the deep past of our inheritance. Autumn here in the Northern Hemisphere now leads us towards the darkest time of year; many cultures celebrate festivals of the dead after harvest time, when darkness begins to prevail. Halloween and the Day of the Dead are probably the best known of these customs.
So in the months of declining light, our thoughts may track back more often to distant memories. And we might find time in those darker evenings to research the deeper areas of life, including our origins in terms of family history.
My own father was dying over Halloween, but he actually made it into the small hours of All Saints’ Day (Nov 1st). I was glad of this, as it is a day of more peace and less turbulence. At about 5am, I got the call to say he had passed away. But when I rushed out of my house in Bristol to drive up to Shropshire (too late to bid him farewell) I couldn’t leave straight away. I discovered that the chaotic energies of Halloween had been at work in the night, and my car windscreen was now smashed. However, perhaps none of us can pass on to peace without a breaking up of the familiar world around us. It seemed symbolic.
Listen to the spine-tingling ‘Soul Cake’ song sung here by the Watersons folk group. People would go door to door around the time of Halloween and All Souls’Day, begging for a soul cake.
The Circle and the Line
I have taken a different approach in each post. My first post here is about the ‘circular’ form of viewing our ancestry, which can open up a new perspective on our direct ancestors, through grandparents, great grandparents and so on.
The second will look at some of the more mysterious and magical aspects of ancestry, and explores the idea that it may still in some sense be present for us today, and that we can have a relationship with this. This is about the resonance of our ancestral line and how it may play a part in our lives.
The Circle of the Ancestors
As part of my degree at Cambridge, I studied anthropology. But although I loved the course, I was alarmed to be told that understanding ‘kinship systems’ was one of the most important elements of the syllabus. Really? I had hoped to learn about myths and rituals, songs and customs, maybe even a bit of magic or witchcraft… And it turned out to be rather heavy reading, untangling the complexities of who can be considered a brother, aunt, cousin, or potential marriage partner in each particular tribe. But anthropology certainly did open my eyes to other ways of viewing different systems of human relationships. I learnt that all in all, there is no one fixed pattern of how to define a family or a relative.
Kinship systems can indeed be complex and confusing!
All this can have a bearing on family history. By the time I came to research mine, in the early 2000s, I had forgotten the nuances of Nuer kinship degrees, but I did know for sure that there was more than one way to cut up the ancestral cake. This had largely been ignored by an older generation of genealogists in our Western Societies, who used to focus almost exclusively on the paternal line, which usually carries the family name. The ‘distaff side’, as the mother’s line was disparagingly termed, was often neglected. Why bother with it, was the general genealogical view, when the all-important family name could not be traced up and down the generations? (And heaven help us if there is a hint of illegitimacy! Better cover it up if possible.) However, in a curious way this practice actually benefited me, because my father’s diligent research on his paternal Irish ‘Phillips’ line – including any distantly-related aristocracy that he could dig up –largely ignored my mother’s family history. It was thus new ground for me to investigate.
Like many other people, I didn’t care much about family history until both my parents had died, and suddenly I was next in the firing line. Perhaps this is commonly a time when we claim our family inheritance, in its intangible sense, along with any material goods left to us. It may turn into a job of stewardship, done according to our own beliefs, as it’s the oldest generation who tend to be the gatekeepers to the family stories, keen to impart the ones they choose, hiding the ones they don’t like.
We can and do change the lens through which we view our ancestors. Knowing this also offers opportunities to ‘choose’ our ancestors, in the sense of selecting that viewpoint. It can be argued that DNA is the sensible way to determine our family connections, but that doesn’t necessarily give us the full picture, since beyond a certain degree of blood kinship, DNA may not share common traits. And for many of us, the ‘story’ of the family is more important anyway, including members who’ve been adopted, born out of wedlock, etc. One branch of my Phillips family is linked to me by the story of two boys, cousins of a sort, who were taken into the main family home at Gaile in Tipperary, while their father purportedly went off to fight for the British in the American War of Independence. And yet, no one can quite be sure whether they were blood relatives – the DNA doesn’t confirm this – or illegitimate and more distant descendants, or even no relation at all, just welcomed into the family and taking its name. In the long run, does it matter? They are firmly embedded in its story now.
So I’m giving over this blog to one particular way of not only seeing, but experiencing the ancestors. It’s ‘the circle’ method, which I’ll now describe here in a slightly adapted compilation from my book ‘Growing your Family Tree: Tracing your Roots and Discovering Who You Are’.
Setting up your Circle of Ancestors
I first heard about this way of invoking your ancestors at a concert celebrating the life of John Clare, a poet who was himself firmly attached to his roots and ancestral landscape. One of the musicians performing there mentioned a family history project which his daughter had brought home from school. She had been asked to enter all her direct-line ancestors into a series of concentric circles, expanding from a central point representing the person in question to include each generation further back. In this case, therefore, the musician’s daughter, would be named at the central point, and her mother and father placed opposite each other on the first circle that surrounded her. The second circle would be marked with the names of her four grandparents, and so on through six circles in total, ending with a final circle containing sixty-four ancestors, all of whom would be her 4x great-grandparents.
It fired my imagination, and back at home, I tried to draw neat circles divided in the correct way, divisions doubling in each circle. It was tricky! Eventually, I achieved a rough template and started to fill it in. This was at a time when I hadn’t got so far with my family history, and inevitably I ground to a halt in different areas of the circle. There weren’t many 3x great-grandparents that I could name at this stage, and very few 4x ones. But the concept, of standing in the centre of circles of ancestors was compelling. I still come back to it frequently, and sometimes check to see if all those sixty-four are now included. (Not quite!)
Making a circle diagram for your ancestors
Creating the Circle: Exercise
See if you can create something similar, but I suggest a reduced version to make it more manageable, which will probably end at the circle of thirty-two. I find that thirty-two direct ancestors are plenty, if I want to know them as individuals, and discover their stories. Thirty-two are as many as I could hold in my mind at once, and as this diagram works as a visual aid and a tool for connecting with your ancestors, I recommend keeping it within practical bounds. Bear in mind that if you were to go some nineteen generations back, you would have over half a million ancestors in your circle!
Yes, we do indeed have thousands of direct-line ancestors!
Contemplating the Circles
Now you can start to make use of your chart. What does it feel like, to be at the centre of your ancestral circles? Try the following:
Look at the finished chart (even if not all the names are complete); gaze at it for a few minutes.
Then close your eyes and try to visualise it. Call up the names of those you know; this is probably easiest in terms of one circle at a time, your grandparents followed by great-grandparents and so on.
Can you see in your mind’s eye a circle of sixteen, then thirty-two grandparent ancestors, even if you cannot differentiate each one of them? Which ones do stand out clearly? Which are shadowy figures? Which faces do you know, from your own life or photos, and which are as yet unknown?
Acknowledge them all with gratitude and respect for the life they have passed on to you.
This is a powerful exercise, which can produce different types of effects. You may experience the ancestors as protecting and caring. But being surrounded by family in this way might also come across as suffocating and restricting. There is no ‘right’ way to experience it, and it may well be that you will find that it varies at different times. After all, this is on a par with family life – sometimes it’s the best support we can have, and sometimes it curbs and frustrates us. But if you keep this as an exercise to return to, you may find that your sense of being connected with your ancestors grows, and that in some sense, they become more ‘alive’ to you. Use the circle as a personal ritual to greet and get to know them.
The remote hills at Bwlch-y-sarnau, Wales, which is the landscape which my Welsh ancestors came from
As Awo Fa’lokun Fatunmbi says, writing in connection with the Yoruba people of Africa:
‘Communication with your own ancestors is a birthright….You cannot know who you are if you cannot call the names of your ancestors going back seven generations. Remembering names is more than reciting a genealogy, it is preserving the history of a family lineage and the memory of those good deeds that allowed to the family to survive.’
The wedding of my Welsh grandfather, Rev. Bernard Owen, to my grandmother Hannah Brown, of Devon and Midlands heritage.
A couple of months ago, I mentioned that we were leaving Devon for Gloucestershire. Well, now the move has taken place. It’s just a week since we uprooted from Topsham, and are now in the process of settling into Minchinhampton. However, I can’t leave completely without waving a fond farewell to the county we’ve enjoyed exploring so much in the last nine years. It was actually my second time of living in Devon, but the first time in the 1980s was based more on the edges of Somerset and Exmoor. So this latest sojourn has allowed us to spend more time by the sea, and exploring East and South Devon. My files are full of photos saved from numerous visits, days out, walks and coffees-on-the-beach. (Not to mention crab sandwiches.) I’ve had to choose selectively, and with pictures that I hope you’ll enjoy. I haven’t tackled Dartmoor, which is a world in its own right, but I hope to do so in a future blog. As for Topsham, where we’ve been living, I’ve covered this extensively in at least seven posts focusing on the town, and Exeter also gets a good mention in a few of them. So here goes with fourteen of our other favourite Devon destinations. And just to make things easier – for me, rather than for you – I’ll display them in alphabetical order.
Budleigh Salterton
Our favourite destination for a Sunday morning coffee. Big choice to be made – from the Lime Kiln car park, shall we stroll to the end of the bay, and watch the swirling River Otter gush out into the sea? Or along towards the town, where you can sit on a bench under the red stone cliff and hear the sea eachoed back behind you.
We’ve rented a beach hut there twice, and when the Devon flag is flying by the boats, you can buy fresh fish. The pebbles are famous, being part of an ancient river that flowed across when France and England were joined – the estimated age of these beautiful stones is around 445 million years old.
Dartmouth
A joy to visit, but much further away, so we have usually gone there out of season, when the traffic is lighter. Crossing on the old chain car ferry from Kingswear is an added treat, and there are boat trips upriver to Greenway, Agatha Christie’s old home, and on to Totnes.
Luckily it’s not such a fierce place now as when this notice was erected
Dawlish Warren
A spit of shifting sand, eerily long, and a rewarding place for birders and walkers. At the inner end, by the road and even a train station, it’s a place for a holiday camp and seaside amusements. Beyond that stretches a mile and a half of dunes and wetland and, curiously enough, a golf course . It’s a struggle to prevent the whole area eroding, but it remains a nature reserve and groynes try to hold the sea and winds at bay. Some experts say it won’t exist for too much longer though. You can gaze across to Exmouth seafront from the Warren – or even catch a ferry from Exmouth to get you there.
East Budleigh
We never pass through East Budleigh without greeting ‘Sir Walter’, son of this village. If you stroll half a mile out along one of the lanes, you’ll arrive at Hayes Barton, the farm where he was born. The Raleigh family were settled in the area, and Walter’s father, also called Sir Walter, was involved in the tumult of the Prayer Book Rebellion in 1549.
Exmouth
Now we’re at Exmouth itself. Bustling, thriving, with both river estuary and a long, long sandy beach to enjoy. It has a cosy little cinema, and an up-and-coming Festival, which I am proud to say is now managed by my daughter Jess Magill! I’m afraid you’ve missed it for this year, but if you want to browse in happy anticipation of next year, here’s the link. When Robert and I were not seeing family in Exmouth, we tended to wander at the far end of the 2 mile stretch of beach, and sometimes up onto the cliffs there. We shall miss Orcombe Point!
Exmouth was also where I met Boss the Eagle Owl for the second time. (At a festival, not flying wild!)
Killerton
Killerton is just a few miles from the sprawl of Exeter, but it feels as though you’re deep in the countryside. It’s the former home of the Acland family, and now National Trust, with beautiful stretches of gardens and wilder parts beyond to be explored. Everyone is fascinated by the bear house! That’s the small, thatched one…and yes, they really did keep a pet bear in there at one time. We have loved getting an early burst of spring with the magnolias and camellias coming into flower.
Knightshayes
Yes, it’s another National Trust house which just happens to be next in the alphabet to Killerton. From here the Heathcote-Amory family could once look down across the estate to their factory in the wool-weaving town of Tiverton. Again, it’s another wonderful place to come in spring. We’ve brought grandchildren and picnics, and they were thrilled by the Gothic interior of the house, just right for a murder mystery. In season the walled kitchen garden is a marvel, and we’ve bought heritage tomato plants there like ‘Chorni Krim’ (Black Crimea) which gave us wondrous black fruits in our greenhouse. All photos on this blog were taken by me, apart from the one of the kitchen garden, since I was never there quite at the right time with my camera.
We shall miss the washing lines of Lympstone – the village on the Exe Estuary which looks as if it’s on the coast of Cornwall.
Otterton
And we’ll miss the charming cottages of Otterton, where we nearly bought a house….and then Minchinhampton beckoned us back again…
Salcombe Regis
This is Salcombe Regis, not to be confused with the town of Salcombe which is the sailing mecca much further down the coast. Salcombe Regis lies just beyond Sidmouth – the village is at the top and the beach is a long, long way down. Our walk was memorable. First, because we met the celebrated Olympic dressage rider Mary King on her horse in the village, which is where she lives. Secondly, because we got stuck in something a bit worse than a bog, almost a slurry pit, when we were attempting the descent via a badly marked footpath through the fields. Eventually we made it down to the beach, and enjoyed dramatic skies as we walked back along it to Sidmouth. This part of the Jurassic coast is prone to cliff falls, so do take care if you venture along the beaches here.
Sidmouth
And here we are indeed, at Sidmouth, conveniently next in the alphabet. I’ve chosen not to go overboard on the quaint 18th century Gothic cottages or the splendid Regency seafront, but rather to feature some nostalgic images of taking Very Small Grandchildren there, a good few years ago now. And in passing, to note that for Robert and I, our adult trips to Sidmouth nearly always ended up with crab sandwiches at Duke’s Hotel on the promenade!
South Molton
South Molton isn’t exactly a tourist destination, though it is one of the gateways to Western Exmoor, via Molland Common. We stopped there on such a trip because it has very ancient connotations for me. In 1980, my former husband and I made a brave (some would say reckless) move from Cambridge to Exmoor, settling with our children in an old Devon longhouse in East Anstey. I had no idea where to move my bank account to, so I chose South Molton, about 18 miles away. I thought we would perhaps go there to market each week…In fact, we virtually never went there, but my account stayed put, long past our move away from the area, right until a few years ago, because banks have now stopped letting you change your branch. And then I received the grave news that it would now be switched to Barnstaple (it’s there still, I think), as the South Molton branch was to be closed. Robert and I found the evidence indeed when we visited in recent years. The plaque on the right hand side of the wall says ‘Midland Bank’, because that’s what HSBC was back then, before it took on the rather dubious title of ‘Hong Kong and Shanghai’!
Teignmouth
Teignmouth is glorious. When you first visit, you may think it’s only a standard seafront, pleasant enough, with promenade, gardens, and white 19th century hotels. However, a friend took me round the town and introduced me to the Back Beach, a picturesque muddle of boats, nets, huts, houses, pubs and workshops. And over the river, via the ferry, to Shaldon, which is a kind of cute Surrey village in miniature, with its own cricket green – once a genuine fishing hamlet, now quaintly unique. Teignmouth also has its bohemian arty streets (ie scruffy but charming) and a splendid Victorian railway station. What’s not to like?
Tuckenhaye
We’ve only visited this delightful corner of South Devon once, for a wedding anniversary break. Tuckenhay sits on a creek which in turn leads into the River Dart. There’s a whole world of boats and creeks to explore – if one had a boat. I have also been much influenced by Alice Oswald’s lengthy poem ‘Dart’ – the voices of the river as it flows from upland Dartmoor to Dartmouth – so it was a treat to meet a different and very beautiful stretch of the river.
Woodbury Common
Woodbury Common is our nearest bit of wild countryside, a patchwork of village commons that have survived as one stretch of open heathland. At one point after the war they were threatened with becoming a municipal rubbish dump – now they are protected, and carefully managed to preserve flora and fauna. We have often walked over different areas of them. It’s surprisingly easy to get lost! But every now and then, you maybe be able to orientate yourself by a glimpse of the sea. In the pictures below, you can see Bog Asphodel – I had to turn to the flower book to identify this one!
It’s from Woodbury that I’ll choose my final image – watching the sunset fall over the view from the ridge of the Common, towards the Exe Estuary. I took this while on a landscape photography course – some thirty of us lined up solemnly along the hill top, waiting for that moment when the sun starts to dip below the horizon. It seemed miraculous.
All photographs in this blog post are copyright Cherry Gilchrist, except where otherwise indicated
Bridges are more than constructions – they have a character, and stories to tell. They can change lives, influence people and places. Their presence makes a massive difference. In this post, I want to draw out some of these implications. What is a bridge all about? What kind of life is lived on and around a bridge? What is it like to be a guardian of such a bridge? Bridges, yield your stories, please!
From England to Wales
‘I build bridges for a living,’ said the middle-aged man with a fancy car.
It was 1969, and he had just given my boyfriend and me a lift across the new River Severn road bridge, from England to Wales. Bridges were therefore very much a topic of conversation.
Really? I had never thought of bridge-building as a profession before. Perhaps he meant it metaphorically, working as a mediator? But no, apparently he was a practical bridge builder, a specialist engineer.
It was less than three years since the first Severn Crossing Bridge had been built. Indeed, it seemed something of a miracle when we sped over this vast expanse of river. Previously the same journey had either meant a very long drive round via Gloucester, or possibly taking the little foot passenger ferry boat running between Aust on the English side and Beachley in Wales. We were students, going as far as we could, as cheaply as we could – we ended up pitching our small tent in a wonderful bay on the Gower Peninsula.
Three Cliffs Bay, Gower Peninsula – where we ended up by lucky chance, on our hitchhiking trip
Perhaps we were less sophisticated back then, but in more recent years I experienced a similar sense of the miraculous, when walking – or was it flying? – across the ravine on the new footbridge at Tintagel in Cornwall. The two sides of the cliff were connected by a land bridge in medieval times, but this collapsed centuries ago, and since then a steep scramble down and back up had been the only way to get across. But now, as one of the project managers says on this video: ‘It was just the most amazing moment, to be able to walk across that bridge and see a view that hasn’t been seen for five hundred years.’
Another captivating view at Tintagel, on the approach to the bridge, plus of course a meeting with King Arthur himself!
The River Exe
One story I’ve researched is that of the bridge over the River Exe, in the city of Exeter. I chose it as my special project during my training as an Exeter City Red Coat Guide.
The River Exe starts as a trickle in boggy upland Exmoor, near Simonsbath, winding its way down to the sea at Exmouth some 63 miles further away. The city of Exeter is just a few miles from the coast, and both the river and the nearby ocean have always been crucial to its history. In Roman times the city was known as Isca Dumnoniorum, the former territory of the Celtic Dumnonii tribe; the Romans made good use of river and sea for valuable import/export trading, and based their port about five miles downriver at Topsham – which happens to be where I currently live.
What’s in a name?
You’ll see from the map that the River Exe joins up with the River Barle just below Dulverton. So why should we take it for granted that the Exe swallows the Barle, rather than the other way round? As the Barle is a beautiful and major river in its own right, quite frankly it could have gone either way with the naming of the river! In which case we might now be talking about the city of Barleter. Not to mention Barlford, Barlminster and Barlmouth.
Below: some bridges upriver on the Exe, as it meanders across Exmoor; the bridge on the right is at Winsford
The River Exe has charming wooden and stone bridges along its early lengths, but when it passes through Exeter itself, it has become broad, powerful, and often turbulent. Building a bridge here is fraught with difficulty. Flooding used to be common too, until modern flood relief schemes were implemented. So how might the Romans have managed, with travellers, animals and goods arriving at West bank of the new city? There were probably ferries, and there was certainly a ford, but this was often dangerous to cross, even on horseback. A bridge would have been a necessity.
Mark Corney, a specialist Romano-British archaeologist, told me that the Romans may well have built a bridge of stone or stone and timber across the river at Isca Dumnoniorum, similar to others which they built in Europe, but no traces of it now remain. We can assume that this was eventually washed away, and that wooden bridges were probably built in Saxon and early medieval times, which were themselves destroyed even more quickly.
The Roman bridge at Merida, Spain, which might be similar in construction to what the Romans built over the Exe
Building Exe Bridge
In about 1200, the first ‘modern’ stone bridge was built across the river, with some 17 or 18 arches. It was broad enough for the two-way traffic of horses, donkeys, cattle, carts, pedlars, and so on. And it was imposing, at around 282 meters long – about two thirds the length of the old London Bridge. This medieval bridge served the city until the late 18th century. Part of it remains today, and the intrepid visitor can still walk across it, surrounded by a swirl of traffic racing around the new road system on the periphery. The river itself has been gradually channelled into narrower boundaries, so much of the old Exe Bridge passes over low-lying, but dry ground.
The medieval bridge over the river Exe in Exeter, allowing travellers from the West to enter the city. The river was shallower and wider then, and would have stretched right across where the grass is now. All that remains of St Edmund’s Chapel now is the tower, although it was in use up until the 1960s.
Building Bridges as a Virtue
The building of stone bridges in Britain during that medieval period was loaded with significance. It was a mark of charity for wealthy merchants to contribute towards bridge-building – in Exeter, the Gervase family, father Nicholas and son Walter, dug deep into their well-stocked coffers to provide much of the money needed. It was probably a win-win situation for the merchant donors, as such a ‘modern’, safe bridge would encourage commerce, and flag up how well-equipped the city was to receive traders.
Above: The old Saxon pillar, probably once part of a cross located by the River Exe to offer spiritual protection for those trying to cross the river, in the days before there was an adequate bridge. Now in the Royal Albert Memorial Museum, Exeter
Praying for your soul – Chapels and Offerings
Crossing over water is always perilous; even with a relatively safe bridge in place, the gods or deity must be placated. It was common practice to throw offerings into the water before crossing a river, whether by ford, boat or bridge. Votive offerings such as coins have been found in the River Exe from different periods, along with an old Saxon cross, which might have marked the place where it was safest for travellers to cross the river. And sometimes, chapels were built on bridges themselves in the medieval period in Britain. There were originally three of these chapels on or by the Exe Bridge, of which only one, St Edmund’s Chapel, still remains, though it is now in ruins. St Edmund was rather an appropriate saint to choose, since he was a 9th century East Anglian king, who hid under a bridge to avoid capture by the invading Danes. In vain, alas, for he was caught and martyred for his faith.
Repair bills
The practical issue of funding bridges has loomed large throughout its history. (And still does – the 2nd Severn Bridge has only been free to cross since 2018, when the debt for building both bridges was finally paid off by toll fees.) Despite the relative stability of Exe Bridge, floods were still frequent, washing away stones and damaging the piers of the bridge. Tolls alone couldn’t pay for it all. Just as it was an act of charity to pay for the building of a bridge, so too was it a worthy deed to leave money in your will for its upkeep. Even small donations were welcome – in his will of 1269 Adam de Collecotte, layman, left 6d to ‘the bridge of Exeter’.
Nevertheless, even on this well-maintained bridge, floods could still endanger life; in Tudor times a tanner called John Cove and his wife were swept away downriver on their bed when their house fell into the raging torrents! Apparently he managed to paddle the bed to safety, using his hands and feet to steer it onto solid ground downstream. The servants, it’s reported, were not so lucky – they drowned in their beds.
Life on the Bridge
Living on the bridge: the last surviving houses which stood on Exe Bridge since the 1500s or so pictured in about the 1880s
A bridge wasn’t just for crossing, either. No, it was for making the most of in daily life too! Exe Bridge became packed with houses, again rather similar to the buildings on the old London Bridge and on other bridges in the UK – bridges where you could shop, pray, drink, live, or store your goods. Some of these buildings on the Exe Bridge lasted right up until the 19th century, and some still remain on a few other bridges in the country. There are still shops, for instance, on the elegant Georgian Pultney Bridge in Bath.
Above: Pultney Bridge in Bath; the small shops which span the length of the bridge. Below: London Bridge in its medieval form.
The Long Drop
On the Exe bridge one building was known by the enchanting name of ‘The Pixy House’. The reality was not so pretty – this was in fact the first public toilet on the bridge, presumably with ‘the long drop’ to the waters below.
There was even a pub on the Exe Bridge, but along with that goes a sad story of some vagrants, who used to lodge there before peddling their ‘sulphur’ matches by day on the streets of Exeter. One night, in 1775, they accidentally set fire to their room while illicitly boiling a pot of brimstone with which to coat their matches. Some died of fumes, others when the roof burst into flames and collapsed. The pub, ironically, was called ‘The Fortunes of War’.
Holy Toll Gatherers
The seal of the bridge keeper at Exe Bridge
The spiritual significance of a bridge carried through to its mundane finances too. Hermits were sometimes appointed to collect any tolls due – it was probably mutually beneficial, since the hermit could gain from having a fixed lodging, and a modest income, and the bridge authorities would get their revenue. Most probably travellers wouldn’t usually dare to refuse the holy man what they owed! Hermits could act in other capacities too in their role as bridgekeepers –supervising repairs for instance, or acting as wise counsellors to passers-by. In medieval times they were not necessarily recluses, but often had a hut or dwelling at a cross roads, where they dispensed wisdom and were handed alms.
A less orthodox kind hermit was found on Exe Bridge, however – a female anchoress. In 1249, records relate that ‘a certain female hermit had shut herself up on the bridge of Exe and was obstructing traffic. Carts could not get by, to the grave damage of the city’s trade.’ And there she remained, for several years. It seems that no one knew quite what to do about her.
I would love to be able to wander back in time, visiting the shops on the bridge, chatting with the folk who lived there, maybe asking a hermit for a bit of wise counsel…and if I visit ‘The Fortunes of War’, I might even pay a visit to the Pixy House…
‘The View from a Bridge’
How does today’s bridge keeper feel about their task? – for there are still some of this ancient and noble calling? Here’s what one has to say:
Having worked on drawbridges for over 12 years, I’ve come to know how strongly many people feel about bridges in general. Just publish your plans to demolish or replace one, and brace yourself for the public outcry. People love to walk and jog across bridges, and many’s the time I’ve witnessed marriage proposals. Fishermen often have their regular spots staked out, and people love to hop out of their cars during bridge openings to enjoy the weather.
A bridge may in some sense may transport us from one world to another. In myth, a rainbow bridge can lead us into the realm of the gods) or a fiery bridge to the land of demons. Or a magic bridge may be conjured up to help the hero or heroine to escape danger. There’s a sense of this in real life too, when a bridge leads us from one country to another, as with the Severn Bridge from England to Wales, or from island to mainland, as with Skye in Scotland where a bridge has been constructed in recent years. Even a tiny bridge can have major implications, such as the one from the airplane into terminal, as you leave the strange world of mid-air limbo, and prepare to step onto new and solid terrain. Bridges are ‘liminal’ places – and perhaps if we linger a little more, or at least become mindful when crossing bridges, we might sharpen our perceptions of changing from one state or place to another.
The Unwelcome Bridge
Not all bridges are benign, however. In Topsham, downriver from Exeter, there is no bridge across the river Exe. So just imagine what it would have been like in the Civil War of the 1640, when General Fairfax threw up a temporary bridge across the River Exe at Topsham, ready for marching his enemy troops over to capture the town. What fear that sight must have caused to the inhabitants! Yesterday, no bridge – today, no one is safe. Capture it he did, though not for very long…
In the 1970s, a more permanent new bridge appeared across Exe upriver from Topsham – the M5 motorway bridge. Before vehicles was allowed on it, pedestrians were invited to walk over and admire the view. Today, the motorway brige, and the noise of traffic dominates the scene upriver from Topsham. Any new bridge certainly has an impact – in this case better for some, disruptive for others.
And another view – one from under the M5 bridge
Bridge awareness
Perhaps there’s no such thing as a bridge with no meaning or significance. And if we paid conscious attention every time we crossed a bridge we might experience this transition more intensely. Why not give it a try? Most of the time, it may be a relatively mundane experience, but sometimes it may be an intense challenge. It took me a huge attempt to overcome my fear to cross the Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge in Northern Ireland. I clung on for dear life – it didn’t matter how safe it might be in theory, it felt like dicing with ultimate danger!
I’m plainly hanging on, as I cross the Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge in a state of great trepidation!
Bridge Despair
Sadly, a bridge can sometimes be chosen as a place to end one’s life. The Exe Bridge of the 19th century (a replacement for the medieval one) was notorious in this respect, as we can see from various old newspaper reports. Mercifully, not all these suicide attempts were successful, though that in itself could be a serious problem. Until 1961, suicide used to be a crime in British law, so a failed attempt could lead to a jail sentence. However, judges often showed compassion:
1890 Edwin Cole aged 32, was arrested for trying to commit suicide. Witness said that at about half past nine in the morning he was standing on the Exe Bridge and saw the prisoner, suddenly throw his hat into the river, clap his hands, exclaiming, “The devil’s got hold of me.” He then threw himself into the river about fifty feet below. Cole was out of work, out of money, and rather drunk – when rescued by the witness and his friend, he said, ‘I did not want to swim ; I wanted to go to the bottom. I have had a lot of trouble, and I am tired of my life.” He was then referred to Sessions Court where he was discharged by a merciful judge after his ailing mother promised to look after him.
(A summary of the report in the Western Times).
Our modern-day Drawbridge keeper also sees the nature of bridges as a jumping off point, sometimes in a horribly literal way:
Bridges also represent transitions. “Crossing over” is a euphemism for taking that journey from life to death. Perhaps that’s also why so many people use bridges when they’ve made the unfortunate decision to end their lives, a decision which, speaking from personal observation, is made far more frequently than is reported in the media, and is also a decision which they instantly regret, judging from their screams on the way down. (‘The View from a Drawbridge)
Occasionally, a woud-be-tragic story turns into comedy. In 1885, a young woman called Sarah leapt off the Bristol Suspension Bridge after a row with her fiancé, to what she imagined would be a suitably dramatic death . However, her billowing skirts acted like a parachute, and she landed relatively unharmed in soft mud, living to marry another and surviving to the age of 85 years.
One of the most famous bridges in the world, at Sydney harbour, Australia
Bridge of Hope
And finally, I return to the drawbridge keeper for this positive view of the bridge:
Perhaps my favourite bridge symbol, though, is that of hope. If you can just get over that bridge, you may find yourself in a better place on the other side…So in some ways bridges can represent a struggle, but one with the prospect of better things on the far shore. I find that inspiring. (‘The View from a Drawbridge)
Crossing the bridge at Tintagel, into a magical world….perhaps!
This is the first blog in which I’ll celebrate ‘Wild Women of Words’ – women who lived unconventionally, close to nature, and wrote about their own special pursuits. Here I’ll introduce you to Hope Bourne, whose writing was primarily about the wild landscape that she lived in.
Hope Bourne – reproduced by kind permission of Chris Chapman photography
A Personal Recollection
In the 1980s, when I was living near Dulverton on Exmoor, we used to buy the West Somerset Free Press newspaper. It was an all-purpose local newspaper, with the kind of headlines that didn’t shake the world. (The one which sticks in my mind was: ‘Rainfall breaks all records!’ Amazing, I thought – but reading on, I discovered that for the first time ever, it had been exactly ‘average’ for the last month. And ‘Hit and Run Driver’ was the villain who’d left a slight dent in another car and not left their details. But perhaps we should be thankful for such mild dramas in local life.
However, the newspaper also contained something unique – a column by one ‘Hope Bourne’. Was it a pseudonym, I wondered, as ‘Patience Strong’ had been a generation earlier, a pseudonym for Winifred Emma May who wrote morally uplifting, often cringeworthy poems for magazines. But I soon realised that Hope Bourne was indeed the genuine name of a woman who lived a very unusual life, immersed in the wild nature of Exmoor. At this time, Hope would already have been in her 60s. She lived remotely, more or less what we’d now call ‘off grid’, and walked miles over the wild moorland every day, sometimes shooting and fishing to catch her food. She was very knowledgeable about history and landscape, and not afraid to speak out from her own values, whether they were the popular ones or not.
Withypool, Hope’s nearest village
I learnt more specifically that she lived alone in a caravan on the site of a burnt-out farmhouse at Ferny Ball in the wilds of Exmoor. She had no transport, but would regularly walk the four miles to Withypool and back, to pick up essential shopping. She observed the changing seasons and the life of the moor in detail, writing and ruminating over the changes and sometimes painting or drawing what she saw – she was a skilled artist who had had professional commissions in her time. All this was the basis for her regular newspaper articles. And she shot rabbits for the pot, a firm believer in the old ways of the countryside. In this way, she was somewhat like the poet Ted Hughes, who hunted and fished as part of his immersion in the natural world, not backing away from the realities of where food comes from.
At this time, we lived in an old Devon longhouse, called Hawkwell Farm. It was no longer a complete farm with all its land, but we still had 10 acres – enough for me to fulfil a dream of owning a horse (or two), and keeping chickens, something which I’d loved as a child. Hope kept bantams around her caravan pitch in the abandoned farmyard. And according to her newspaper column, these bred freely and she often had more bantam chicks than she knew what to do with. So I plucked up courage and wrote to her. We could offer a home for one or two, if she liked?
Hawkwell Farm, a more recent photo, looking rather more well-kept than in the days when we had it. Below are a picture map of its old field systems which was painted on our dining room wall at the time, and the nearby Hawkwell Cross.
Hope did indeed like the idea. She had a couple of spare bantams looking for a good home. She invited me over to visit her and I in turn invited her to come back in the Land Rover with me to lunch, and see where the two bantams would be living. She accepted with alacrity – she was keen to see corners of Exmoor that she hadn’t visited before.
All this happened forty years ago, so my memory is a little hazy, but I remember being somewhat shocked when I drove up to Ferny Ball, to see the ruinous state of the farm surrounding her caravan. And we chatted easily – I was left in no doubt that she was a sharp-minded, lively woman with strong views. I do remember in particular her opinion of the stag hunt on Exmoor, already contentious at that time, and later banned. ‘You see,’ she said, ‘I view it as one of the last remnants of medieval pageantry.’ I had never thought of it that way before, but I mused on her perspective. The deer do need culling, as they have no natural predators such as wolves in this man-managed landscape, and the debate is usually over whether it’s better to hunt or shoot them. There are many articles about deer on Exmoor, and their welfare, such as https://wildaboutexmoor.com/exmoor-deer/ and, in my old friend the West Somerset Free Press. But for Hope to see it as part of the old ways of the countryside, and its rich traditions, certainly gave food for thought.
Red deer, as I photographed them on Molland Common, at the full extent of my zoom lens
An Exmoor pony, on Anstey Common
Hope had arrived on Exmoor as a child. She was born in Oxford in 1918, the illegitimate daughter of a school teacher; her father was an Australian soldier, who she never met, but thought that she probably inherited her ‘love of guns and horses’ from him. Hope and her mother moved to Hartland in north Devon in 1927, and eventually in 1951 to a cottage on Exmoor. With just a short absence after her mother died in 1955 (when Hope tried out life in Australia on a sheep farm), Hope then lived on Exmoor for nearly fifty years. It was a singular life, but not a reclusive one. She loved her life alone, but also welcomed company – remembered by others as a kind, helpful woman. She often helped out on the farms where she was skilled with haymaking, harvest, and working with cattle and sheep. Horses were also her love, and she created beautiful paintings of the Exmoor ponies, who roam semi-wild there.
For many of these biographical details, I’m indebted to Chris Chapman for his video ‘How many people see the stars as I do?’ You can watch a trailer for the film (see below) and purchase it from Chris Chapman directly, an account of Hope’s life and his friendship with her. I’m also grateful to Chris for permission to use his stunning portrait of Hope to open this account.
The Bantams Arrive
Hope and the ‘banties’ thus arrived at Hawkwell, and we gave her lunch and chatted – I wish now that I’d recorded or noted down more of our conversation. Sprite, the female bantam, along with ‘Cocky’ (a male surplus to Hope’s own flock) settled down nicely with our assorted flock of free range hens, and a few more bantam companions. Then a little later, I received a further letter from her, offering me another growing bantam.
Dear Cherry,
Many thanks for letter – it is so kind of you to let me know how ‘Sprite’ is getting on – I’ve thought about her so much. Thank you for being kind to her, and finding time to talk to her. Of course, everything must be very strange to her, but I’m sure she will settle down. I think your idea of making a little temporary enclosure for her and Cocky a very good one – it would keep them in each other’s company so that a ‘bond’ would form.
Now this brings me to say, amongst a lot of troubles I have had one bit of good luck: of the youngest small brood of this year’s chicks, all of whom I had assumed to be cocks, one has turned into a pretty little lightish-coloured hen, like the ones in the photo you showed me. So I am a little hen to the good. Would you like to have her? You would then have a trio again, and she would be company for Sprite – one of her own kind.
If you would like her, I suggest about Christmas time would be the best time to have her, as she will be fairly well grown then, and able to hold her own with the others.
Thank you too for my visit to Hawkwell, which I loved. I think it is a most beautiful place, and I hope that I may one day come again. Looking through some of my notes, I see that it is ‘Hawechewelle’ (?) in the Domesday Book and had land to 3 ploughs, with three ploughs there, three villeins, 4 bordars [smallholders] and one serf, (the villeins were the peasant farmers, so look around for three other farms nearby. The bordars were smallholders. The serf would be just a slave attached to the home-farm. The area of land is not so easy to assess, since early medieval land measurements and categories are complicated and often difficult to interpret.
Hoping to hear from you again before too long,
Hope L. B.
The early days of our hens at Hawkwell, while still youngsters, before the bantams arrived.
After that, I didn’t meet Hope again, which is much to my regret now. Our own country dream (more romantic and less committed than Hope’s way of life) came to an end when we moved up to Bristol in 1987, and we re-homed our menagerie. Schooling for the children, work in London for my husband, my growing involvement in singing early music– all these prised us out of our Exmoor idyll. Plus it was very hard work. We were not made of the stern stuff that Hope was.
Her letter to me, below:
I kept up with news of Hope through mutual friends from time to time, and eventually heard that she had had to give up her ‘wild’ existence. She was getting older, less healthy, and no richer either – the Poll Tax imposed by Margaret Thatcher, money to pay simply for being alive, was one of the final straws. She had been a fierce resister in refusing all State aid for all those years, and now she was to be penalised for this. As we now know, this hugely unpopular tax was abolished a few short years later – but by then it was too late for Hope. She thus moved into sheltered accommodation with the financial assistance of kind friends.
Hope’s Legacy
I have three of her books on my shelf: Living on Exmoor, Exmoor Village, and Hope Bourne’s History of Exmoor. Apparently Living on Exmoor was put together out of scraps of paper, packed up in a cow cake bag and sent on spec to the publishers! Luckily, they recognised it as something quite unique, and accepted it. Her writing can be a little on the effusive side, but I’m not surprised that it does sometimes go a little over the top – it is astonishing how she manages to sustain descriptions of nature and the landscape page after page. There are some truly beautiful passages, marked with sharp observations. From the chapter on May, therefore, in Living on Exmoor, which is particularly appropriate to the moment that I’m writing this, with the first of May in a couple of days’ time.
Everywhere the beech has burst into such a glory of living green as bewilders all the senses. Translucent, soft as silk, delicate as fluttering wings, holding the light in showers of pure green-gold – the beech leaves break over the harsh moorland landscape like a benediction, like a voice proclaiming life. Over hill and combe, all round the fields and about the grey-roofed farms the green tide flows and tosses, life from the brown shucked bud, life from the dead wood, life reaching out to the mounting summer sun. How lovely is the beech! No foliage is there more delicate in spring, no leaves so fiery in autumn, nor yet any tree stouter to face the winter gales….Now I walk home in the evening hours, with all the sky an ocean of endless radiant light…and see the hills dissolve in molten space, and all the leaves, each one a green translucent thing, a green light against the light. The sun sinks down and is gone. The horizon grows dark with a line of wind-twisted beech marching along its rim, far off and distant like a drawing. The sense of space and distance is enormous, infinite. It is like looking at a country far off in space and time…The dark sky-line against the light seems to draw one’s soul…Suddenly all things seem possible, for one feels a power that is more than mortal all around. It Is an awareness that is something beyond all human understanding.
The hollow drumming of a snipe comes strange and vibrant in the silence. I turn through the first field gate int the twilight, and the last sound of the night is the croaking of the frogs like inane laughter in the labyrinth of the bog below.
Hope became an esteemed figure in the landscape during her life on Exmoor. In 1978, Daniel Farson made a film about her. She thus became a ‘star of self-sufficiency’ for a while, but didn’t enjoy the attention – she didn’t want to be seen as a ‘back to the land’ hippy, but empasised that lived her way ‘out of necessity’. She never had much money; her grandfather’s will cut off any possible inheritance from her mother.
Since her death, her renown has grown year after year, and she is now a legend. Regular walks for visitors are conducted down the tracks that she walked, she features in Exmoor exhibitions, and has become part of the heritage of Exmoor itself. Our lives only touched each other for a short while, but I’m proud to have known her, and wish it had been for longer. Exmoor itself is imprinted on my soul, and now that we’re back living in Devon, I try to visit it regularly again.
The wild Exmoor uplands of Dunkery Beacon and the beauty of the beech trees in old Exmoor woodland.
For another illustrated article about Hope, with further details of her life, and emphasising her contribution to understanding nature and our place in it, see ‘How Many People see the Stars as I do?’ in The Return of the Native, a blog about Landscapes of Literature, Art and Song.
As I approach my 100th post on Cherry’s Cache, I’m taking a spring break. So I’m now posting one of my occasional ‘interludes’ which I hope will provide some gentle interest and amusement for a while. And meanwhile, behind the scenes, there are new posts in preparation. I never know exactly which ones will succeed and make the light of day, so I shan’t give away anything just yet! But I’m hopeful to have a few more to share with you through the changing seasons. To give a clue or two: a feisty lady whose invention was sought by royalty – an ancestral hero who was hanged for treason – and the story of a bridge which housed an illegal match factory. Let’s see how it goes!
The Magic of Common Names
For now, it’s the spring itself which prompts this post, about the names that we give to flowers. Those names which I learned in my childhood still cluster brightly in my mind. Meadowsweet, foxglove, deadly nightshade, celandine. Bluebell, speedwell, old man’s beard, and ragged robin. Scarlet pimpernel, Jack-go-to-bed-at-noon, and marsh marigold. All these are old familiar friends to me, and I have no trouble identifying them in fields, woods and hedgerows, in the way that my parents taught me on our country walks when I was a little girl. I imagine that in my mother’s case, they were handed down to her by her parents too –my grandfather, taught me that hawthorn leaf buds were called ‘bread and cheese’, and that they were tasty to eat. (They are, too!) He also said: ‘When the gorse is out of bloom, then kissing’s out of season’. Something I’ve trotted out regularly, to the boredom of my own family. A botanist later explained to me that they have identified two different species of gorse, which bloom at different times of year, hence the impression that they’re perennially in flower.
The gorse which proves that ‘Kissing’s never out of season.’
I loved leaning these names, and must admit that I haven’t progressed hugely beyond my childhood lists. (I have added though, for instance, Bog Asphodel, Yellow Rattle, and Star of Bethlehem. Plus Lousewort and Feverfew, Angelica and Yellow Archangel)
Left: Bog Asphodel, photographed on Woodbury Common, East Devon.
Right: Yellow Rattle and Star of Bethlehem, photographed on Minchinhampton Common, Gloucestershire
I will never be a proper wildflower specialist, because above all else, I love the ‘common’ names and resist learning the Latin ones. They may be far more accurate in differentiating species, but they lack the character of our common ones, which are often steeped in folklore, healing lore and bawdy jests. (see below, for Cuckoo Pint). Last summer, in 2022, writer Michael Rosen broadcast a radio programme about these names, in his BBC series ‘Word of Mouth’. If you can access iPlayer, it’s available at https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/m0019m7c
The programme description reads:
‘Snotty Gogs and Moggie Nightgown may not immediately mean a lot to you but as common or folk names for the Yew berry and Wood anemone they reveal a fascinating social and cultural history of the countryside. Michael Rosen talks to the natural history broadcaster Brett Westwood about the informative, often funny sometimes bawdy names given to British plants and flowers.’
Some are a kaleidoscope of interchangeable names: Eggs And Bacon may also be called Birdsfoot Trefoil, Cuckoo Flower can be Lady’s Smock, that sticky grass which you threw at when you were little) can be referred to Cleavers, Goosegrass or Sticky Willie. And in my mind, Eyebright, Speedwell and Traveller’s Joy are all the same thing – small, bright blue flowers. Though either I telescoped them or was taught erroneously, as on further checking it seems that Traveller’s Joy should really be identified with Old Man’s Beard, growing in the hedgerows and seen most clearly in winter. Listening to Michael Rosen’s broadcast I was taken aback to hear that Cuckoo Pint, which is what we used interchangeably with Cuckoo Flower, actually relates to Lords and Ladies, ie Arum Lilies. However my shock is not at the casual transference of names, but the fact that apparently Cuckoo means Cuckold, and Pint is an old word for penis – you can work out the implications I am sure.
The same radio programme also mentions flower games, such as making daisy chains, which reminded me how my Auntie Maisie taught me to make Poppy Dolls. You carefully fold the scarlet petals back, exposing the black frilled seedhead at the centre, then tie the doll’s waist with a soft piece of grass, and poke a stiff piece of grass through the upper area of the petals to look like arms. Could I find an image of these on the internet? (It not being the poppy season to give me a chance to revive my skills.) Hooray, I could! These ones have two legs rather than our single stem ‘leg’. I wonder how they did that?
Old Man’s Beard or Traveller’s Joy, Marsh Woundwort, and Forget-me-not
The pandemic project: listing names
So to conclude, here’s a list of ‘common’ names which I copied out of a book of flowers. It was an afternoon-idling kind of activity that I turned to in lockdown, and now it can find a place here. I wrote out all that appealed to me for the ring of their names, the humour and the stories that must go with them. The book was ‘Field Guide to the Wild Flowers of Britain’, published by the Reader’s Digest in 1981, and as well as an identifier, it’s a treasure trove of information on plant names, uses and folklore. Some are well-known, some unusual or regional. And rather than call them common, I’d use the word ‘magical’. See what you think.
Bullrush
Marsh Marigold
Stinking hellebore
Traveller’s Joy
Buttercup
Foxglove
Lady’s Smock –
Cuckoo Pint
Meadowsweet
Spearwort
Crowfoot
Treacle mustard
Gold-of-pleasure
Swine-cress
Shepherd’s purse –
Mother’s heart
Lords and Ladies
Ragged Robin
Bachelor’s Buttons
Chickweed
Sally-my-handsome
Hottentot fig
Good King Henry
Fairy flax
Herb Robert
Goat’s rue
Lady’s Mantle
Biting stonecrop
Jack-go-to-bed-at-noon
Sundew
Enchanter’s Nightshade
Rosebay Willowherb
Shepherd’s Needle
Sweet Cicely
Common dodder
Lady’s Slipper
Aaron’s Road
Toadflax
Monkey Flower
Red Rattle
Self-Heal
Marsh Woundwort
Yellow archangel
White Horehound
Skullcap
Lady’s bedstraw
Sheep’s fescue
Yorkshire fog
Creeping Bent
Snapdragon
Love-in-a-Mist
Hollyhock
Hound’s tongue
Corngromwell
Goosegrass
Honeysuckle
Devil’s bit Scabious
Butterburr
Colt’s foot
Fleabane
Common cudweed
Golden Rod
Mountain everlasting
Sneezewort
Nipplewort
Smooth hawk’s beard
Cat’s Ear
Frogbit
Solomon’s Seal
Butcher’s broom
Star of Bethlehem
Field Wood-rush
Stinking Iris
Dragon’s Tongue
Blue Devil
Autumn lady’s tresses
Bird’s nest orchid
The Queen of the Night resides amongst Wallflowers: taken in our garden in a previous Spring, and appearing again soon
I introduced the first part of my ‘Coronation’ post with very few details about the author known as ‘Charles Tetworth’. So here are a few more: He was born at the end of the 1920s, came from a working class home in South Wales, and was brought up in Somerset and Wales. He left home young, at the age of 16, to join the RAF where he (surprisingly!) discovered the tradition of knowledge known as ‘Cabbala’, in its Tree of Life form. For the rest of his life, he dedicated himself to passing on this knowledge, and developing new forms of it which might serve in the future. In his professional life, he was versatile, working variously as an accountant, a babywear sales rep, and a jeweller among other things. He died in 2006. There is no great secret now as to who he was in ‘real’ life, but as he preferred to use this pseudonym for this particular book, I’m following his wishes.
So now the concluding section of Chapter Ten of Wielding Power by Charles Tetworth, on the subject of the British Coronation. As before, the transcription is exact but sub-headings may be mine, for ease of reading. Eithr I have supplied the illustration captionsor the source for these is given.
Extract from: Wielding Power: The Essence of Ritual Practice, by Charles R. Tetworth
Enter the Monarch Elect
All the regalia have been placed in the Abbey. Now the monarch enters the Abbey, clothed in the Crimson Robe and Cap of Maintenance and proceeds to pray privately. Then the Archbishop together with the Lord Chancellor, Lord Great Chamberlain, Lord High Constable and Earl Marshall present the monarch to the four quarters – east, south, west and north – asking all to recognise the true monarch and to pay homage. With trumpets and loud acclamations of “God save the King/Queen”, the ceremony proceeds to the Litany when all the regalia (except the swords of the nobles) are placed on the altar. We then start the communion service and after the homily the monarch takes the Coronation Oath. With Bible in hand he promises to govern the people, to execute law and justice in mercy and to maintain the laws of God.
Empowerment
The monarch is disrobed of the Crimson Robe and the Cap of Maintenance. While the Archbishop is blessing the oil, the monarch sits on the Chair of Edward. This is built around the Stone of Destiny from Scone Abbey in Scotland. The Scottish kings used to be crowned on it until Edward I took it from them in 1296. Ever since, it has been used for the crowning of English monarchs. The monarch sits on the Stone of Destiny, under a canopy of cloth-of-gold which is held by four Knights of the Garter. The Archbishop then proceeds to anoint the monarch with the Holy Oil taken from the Ampulla using the Spoon. The monarch is anointed first on the crown of the head “as kings, priests and prophets were anointed”, then on the breast and the palms of both hands. The palms represent the physical, the breast symbolises the heart, and the crown of the head represents the intellect. The oil is a symbol of grace and benevolence. It impresses the gift of the Holy Spirit.
(A Note on the The Anointing Spoon, which is described thus by the Royal Collection Trust and pictured above):
The silver gilt spoon has an oval bowl, divided into two lobes, engraved with acanthus scrolls. The bowl is joined to the stem by a stylised monster’s head, behind which the stem flattens into a roundel, flanked by four pearls, and a band of interlaced scrolling, with another monster’s head; the end of the tapering stem is spirally twisted, and terminates in a flattened knop.
The spoon is first recorded in 1349 as preserved among St Edward’s Regalia in Westminster Abbey. Already at this date it is described as a spoon of ‘antique forme’. Stylistically it seems to relate to the twelfth century and is therefore a remarkable survival – the only piece of royal goldsmiths’ work to survive from that century. It was possibly supplied to Henry II or Richard I.
In times past monarchs were also anointed in the middle of the shoulders, the shoulders themselves and the inside of the elbows. This was symbolic of the wings of the spirit. Unfortunately, this is no longer done. This part of the service is the actual empowering of the monarch, and is accompanied by the words: “And as Solomon was anointed King by Zadok the priest and Nathan the prophet, so be you anointed, blessed, and consecrated King/Queen over this People, whom the Lord your God hath given you to rule and govern, In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.”
This recording of Zadok the Priest is sung by the Choir of Westminster Abbey
Then the canopy is taken away and the monarch is dressed in the vestments of a bishop with the Colobium Sindonis, the Dalmatic, the Pall and a girdle. Thus robed, the Golden Spurs are presented. The custom now is to touch the king’s heel with the spurs, but they used to be buckled on. A queen only touches them. The spurs signify that the monarch is head of all orders of knighthood. The Jewelled Sword of State is next given to the monarch (a king will gird the sword, while a queen touches it only) and is described as a “kingly” sword with which to “restore, maintain, reform and confirm” order. The sword is then taken by a peer and redeemed for a “hundred shillings”, and drawn out of the scabbard and carried naked in front of the monarch for the rest of the ceremony. The monarch is then invested with the Bracelets of sincerity and wisdom and the Pall or Imperial Mantle. The monarch has now been established as the nation’s priest or priestess.
The Coronation of George IV in 1821
Confirmation
Now begins the investiture of the monarch, dressed in the “Robe of Righteousness”, with earthly power. He or she receives the Orb with these words: “And when you see this Orb thus set under the Cross, remember that the whole world is subject to the power and empire of Christ, our Redeemer.” Next, the monarch is wedded to the spirit of the land with a ring. The Orb is laid aside, and the monarch is given the Sceptre with the Cross, the ensign of royal power and justice, to hold in his right hand, and the Sceptre with the Dove, the Rod of equity and mercy, for the left hand. Now the monarch is crowned by the Archbishop with St Edward’s Crown and everybody shouts, “God save the Queen/King.” The Peers and Kings of Arms all put on their coronets, trumpets sound and the guns in the Tower of London fire their salute.
“The Imperial State Crown is formed from an openwork gold frame, mounted with three very large stones, and set with 2868 diamonds in silver mounts, largely table-, rose- and brilliant-cut, and coloured stones in gold mounts, including 17 sapphires, 11 emeralds and 269 pearls.” (Royal Trust Collection)
The clergy then present the monarch with the Holy Bible, signifying wisdom, and bless him or her. The monarch leaves King Edward’s chair and goes to the Throne which is lifted up by the clergy and the peers, officers and nobles. This is a relic of the monarch being raised above the people on his shield so that all could see. All the relevant persons present pay homage to the monarch publicly. Individuals from the clergy, royals and peers come up to the monarch, swear fealty and allegiance, and kiss the monarch’s cheek. After this the monarch descends from the throne and goes to the altar where the Crown, Sceptre and Rod are delivered to the Lord Chamberlain. The monarch offers the bread and wine for communion to the Archbishop, and also makes an offering to the Abbey of an altar cloth and a gold ingot. The service continues, and when the bread and wine have been administered to the monarch, he or she puts on the Crown and takes up the Sceptre and Rod again. At the end of the service the monarch retires to be disrobed and puts on the Royal Robe of Purple Velvet, the Imperial Crown and takes the Orb in his left hand and the Sceptre with the Cross in his right hand for the long procession in the state coach back to the palace, through the waiting and cheering crowds. Once at the palace, the monarch must make a statutory appearance on the balcony to wave again to the crowds.
The crowning of King William I after the Battle of Hastings in 1066, as imagined by the Alderney Bayeux Tapestry Project, which set out to complete the missing sections of the original Bayeux Tapestrey.
The Author’s Conclusions
Since the overall aim of the book is to unfold the significance of ritual, whether everyday, of magical intent or national importance, Tetworth concludes here by taking a step back and suggesting that a combination of ‘order’ and ‘joy’ are both essential for effective ritual. At the other end of the spectrum, chaos does not channel the intention successfully and unmitigated solemnity can become oppressive.
Confirmation
When people assemble in procession in large numbers the spectators are affected by colours and by feeling. If the paraders are all dressed in different colours and clothing, there is plenty of stimulation for the eyes and ears, but, like Brownian movement, there is no order in it. When there is no order, there is excitement but no satisfaction. Each new stimulus starts off a train of associations in the perceiver and is replaced by another train, but there is no connection between the two. There is nothing for the feelings or the mind to rest upon. If there is order in the procession, with uniforms and bands and cavalry and coaches, robes and coronets, there is sufficient difference for the eye not to be bored. There is a theme running through the parade. The feelings can cohere, the mind perceives order, continuity is established. Unconsciously one is reassured – there is order in the world. The coronation is a drama where the order of the state is publicly enacted. Rightly or wrongly, the spectator feels that things are all right, that someone is looking after the state.
Although Hitler and all the fascist dictators ensured that their public rituals were massive, they did not imbue the rituals with enough fun and enjoyment. They impressed strangers with the danger of the situation, not with delight; they were not the summation of centuries of different experiences. All state displays are an enactment of the structure of the society. Those states who consider all their members as being basically the same tend towards mass displays of gymnastics, weaponry and sheer weight of uniformity. For me, the spectacle of 10,000 people all performing the same actions on some great celebration is terrifying. I feel that they, the people, have been reduced to the activity of worker ants. But so be it. No doubt, that is how that particular state is happy to perceive itself.
As for the coronation, the whole procedure evokes in the mind of the British people their history and the continuity of the nation. It invokes the aid of God and Christ, and the monarch, the clergy and peers, all the guests and the crowds participate in these events. The coronation itself provides a ritual of defence. The armed forces are represented by their senior officers. It commemorates the monarch by the historic allusions and the age of some of the items involved. It initiates a reign – that is, it recognises that a new beginning has been made. It empowers, in that the symbols of monarchy are bestowed; and the handing over of the weapons acknowledges mastery. The monarch is confirmed in status when he is placed on the throne and acclaimed by the clergy, the peers and the people. Becoming a monarch means giving up a private life. It may not have been so drastic in the days before television and radio, but now it certainly is so. Even Edward VIII found that he was forced to abdicate because of his private life.
It is not easy to relate and know with certainty the result or consequences of any one action. How can we possibly judge the consequences of the great ritual act of Queen Elizabeth II’s coronation? Was it a successful ritual? History will judge the political, philosophical and social results.
Queen Elizabeth II’s appearance on the balcony at Buckingham Palace after her coronation in 1953
And for my own conclusion…
Since these final words were written, we have of course said farewell to Queen Elizabeth. And at the time of writing this, we are awaiting the next coronation, of King Charles III on May 6th 2023. I’m grateful to historical novelist Deborah Swift, for pointing me to an article which reveals that there may be more to this choice of date than meets the eye – potentially,the date selected relates to both Islamic and Celtic traditions on this (hopefully) auspicious day. King Charles himself has been a keen student of different religious and spiritual tradiitons, and a patron of the Temenos Academy where he says:
The work of Temenos could not be more important. Its commitment to fostering a wider awareness of the great spiritual traditions we have inherited from the past is not a distraction from the concerns of every-day life. These traditions, which form the basis of mankind’s most civilised values and have been handed down to us over many centuries, are not just part of our inner religious life. They have an intensely practical relevance to the creation of real beauty in the arts, to an architecture which brings harmony and inspiration to people’s lives and to the development within the individual of a sense of balance which is, to my mind, the hallmark of a civilised person.You can read his full message by clicking on the link above. I myself was privileged to give a series of three lectures to the Temenos Academy on the significance of Russian mythology.
We don’t yet know how much the ceremony will be slimmed down, but it’s likely that most of the components of the ritual itself will be preserved. Once again, the import of his reign will emerge over time. I hope these two posts may be helpful and illuminating in understanding the prime rituals of this ‘Ancient Nation’, as Tetworth referred to it. Once again, I’m grateful to his family and editor for helping me to extract and post this chapter of his book.
Sitting on top of the world…en route from Pakistan to Uzbekistan
Just recently, I discovered a cache of photos taken from a second Silk Road trip that I made. The first trip, in 1995, lasted around a month as with a group I travelled from Bejing to Rawalpindi, across the West of China to Kashgar and Tashkurgan, then down the Karakorum Highway – a narrow road hewn out of the rock at great cost to the workers who built it, and replacing the old caravan trail barely big enough for pack horses. Around a year later, my(former) husband decided that he’d missed out, and would also like to see something of this ancient trade route, a branching network of roads traverses the terrain from East to West. The Silk Road network extends north and south into countries such as India and Pakistan, Russia and Syria. In the heyday of the Silk Road, from the early centuries AD until the 15th century (when new sea trading routes largely superceded it) it was the means by which exotic, innovative goods were traded from one part of the world to the other – silk of course, but also gunpowder, paper, rhubarb and exquisite carpets and ceramics. It was also the route for transmission of stories, art, and religious beliefs. You can read more about this in my previous blogs – Bazaars of the Silk Road and Suzani from the Silk Road.
My second trip – my husband’s first – was much shorter, and this time we began in Islamabad (next door to Rawalpindi in Pakistan), and flew up to Gilgit. From there we would travel up through Pakistan and onwards north to Kashgar in China, over the mountain pass into Kirghistan and to our final destination of Uzbekistan. The plane from Islamabad to Gilgit actually flies between the mountains, rather than over them, so if there’s a cloud in the sky, the flight doesn’t go. If it does go, you hope that a cloud or two doesn’t appear en route, and thicken into mist, since that could be a recipe for disaster. Our flight took off successfully – the alternative was something like a three day drive through unspectacular scenery. It also landed successfully, I’m pleased to say.
Arrival at Gilgit, at the time of a sombre religious festival. Some of the men standing on the rooftops were army snipers, on the lookout for any trouble
I had visited Gilgit before, and enjoyed its (then) fairly relaxed attitude, which welcomed foreigners. This time, however, there was a different atmosphere since it was just after the festival of Ashura when according to the BBC website:
For Shia Muslims, Ashura is a solemn day of mourning the martyrdom of Hussein in 680 AD at Karbala in modern-day Iraq. It is marked with mourning rituals and passion plays re-enacting the martyrdom. Shia men and women dressed in black also parade through the streets slapping their chests and chanting. Some Shia men seek to emulate the suffering of Hussein by flagellating themselves with chains or cutting their foreheads until blood streams from their bodies.
There had been lashing, and many men strode past, wild-eyed, with open wounds on their backs. A tense atmosphere prevailed and army snipers stood on the rooftops, alert to any outbreak of trouble. This was not a place for tourists, and we kept our heads bowed and scurried on, pleased when we could set out on the next stage of our journey, up the Karakorum Highway and up into Kashgar, a place dear to my heart, with its huge Sunday market. From there we’d travel over the Torugart Pass into Kirghistan – new territory for me.
These gloriously painted trucks and buses are the norm for transport in the area. Our minibus was a lot less colourful, however!
The Hunza valley, up the Karakorum Highway is truly beautiful, and a stopping off point for mountaineers. The fiendish Karakorum mountains lure those who seek the ultimate challenge – ultimate in the case of Alison Hargreaves, an accomplished mountaineer who sadly died there in 1995 as a young mother in her 30s. These mountains have jagged, threatening peaks which loom darkly above you, and its hard to imagine anyone scaling them. But in Hunza below, apricot trees are laden with fruit, wild cosmos flowers bloom in the grass, and the terraces on the lower slopes are bright green with crops and grass fodder, grown with care and great industry by the local inhabitants.
Here too are the ancient forts of Altit and Baltit, presiding over the lost Silk Road kingdom of Hunza – other such kingdoms which you may never have heard of include Kashgaria and Sogdiana. Whole dynasties have risen and fallen in these regions and modern maps are sadly inadequate for understanding the layout of old Silk Road territories.
Relaxing in the ancient fort of Altit – or was it Baltit? Part of the Hunza valley is spread out below, although you cannot see here the full extent of the imposing Karakorum mountains
As it was my second Silk Road trip, and a shorter one, I documented it in less detail than the first, when I was eager to write a complete travel journal. Thus the pictures I have of mountains and nomadic people are somewhat loosely defined geographically now in memory, and I’ll share them without attempting to be too precise about their location. And what I’ll miss out here is our visit to the fabled city of Kashgar, now sadly with its Uighur and Silk Road culture diluted in recent years by Chinese domination and suppression. I took many pictures on my previous trip there, and perhaps because of that, I focused entirely on enjoying the vast Sunday market the second time round. But you can see more of Kashgar in my previous blog Bazaars of the Silk Road
But first the border crossing, from the far West of China through the Torugart Pass into Kirghistan. This was a prolonged affair, leaving one country and travelling several miles before entering the next. On the Kirghiz side, it was still the border post of the old Soviet Union, and guarded with maximum formalities. Although, as I speak Russian, I was able to chat to the officers who were delighted that someone, at last, spoke their native tongue!
Making new friends at the Chinese border! Always as well to have the guards on your side.
The peoples of this area mingle too – Tajiks, Kirghiz, and Uzbekis, for instance.There are still nomadic tribes or families, using traditional yurts, and perhaps migrating to town houses in the winter months.
Ever curious children (these ones probably from Hunza) above, and below a nomadic family, probably Tajiks who often have rosy cheeks and flashing black eyes.
The family below were yurt dwellers, at least for the summer months when they can graze their animals on mountain grass. The white felt hat which the man on the left is wearing is the traditional Kirghiz headgear. In the second picture, you’ll see that I took the chance to try ‘kumis’ which is usually made from mare’s milk, and tastes like kefir. It was delicious! Some swear by it as a cure for chestiness and other respiratory ailments.
Tasting kumis – fermented mare’s milk!Note that it comes out of an old goatskin (?) bag.
The yurts are easy to transport and put up again; they’re constructed on a pattern representing the cosmos, with the central crossing symbolising the four directions. You must always walk round sunwise inside a yurt, starting from the left hand side, even if what you’re coming in for is close to the right hand side of the entrance. Inside, they are cosy, and infants sleep snugly wrapped in their cradles, which can also be transported intact.
The cross poles of the yurt in the centre of the yurt, the heart of the universe
A Kirghiz baby in his or her bed, strapped and wrapped for safety
It was also an opportunity to try my skills on a horse again. The Kirghiz particularly love their horses, and on my previous Silk Road trip I’d also managed to blag my way onto a steed! They specialise in decorated felt and embroidered saddle cloths.
In the higher regions of Central Asia and Western China, yaks are useful for their meat, milk and as beasts of burden. They are also known as the ‘Tartary ox’.
Yaks, domesticated and hardy in the kind of extreme terrain seen below
Kirghistan has its own national hero – Manas. He is perhaps what Genghis Khan is to the Mongolian civilisation, a warrior king who fought battles for his people. The Epic of Manas in its present form dates from the 18th century, but was passed down orally before that, and is believed by the Kirghiz to be much older – they celebrated its 1000th anniversary in 1995! Its provenance is complex, but it seems to be based on historical facts much mythologised to celebrate the prowess of the superhuman hero.
A vast statue of the Kirghiz warrior king, Manas, which stands in Bishkek
If you’d like to watch this short video, you can see marvellous shots of the Kirghiz way of life, along with listening to plangent Kirghiz music, hearing a clip from the epic of Manas, and watching those curious white felt hats.
Kirghiz Music and Culture
Descending eventually down into Uzbekistan, a hotter and flatter country, we visited the astonishing cities of Samarkand and Bukhara. Later, on a subsequent trip, I also reached Khiva, which is a renovated Silk Road city of magnificently tiled buildings. Buhkara has been a melting pot of different dynasties and peoples, and the Samanid mausoleum built in the 10th century includes influences from Byzantium, Persia along with Sogdian and Sassanian styles, plus, we were told, hints of the ancient Zoroastrian religion.
Here in Uzbekistan, the produce is lusher, the clothes made of lighter fabric. The famous ‘rainbow silk’ is still worn by the women. There’s a legend about how it came into being – it can be found in a blog from my original website: Images from the Silk Road – Rainbow Silk
The second girl from the left in the back row is wearing rainbow silk, a nationally-celebrated fabric
And so we rounded off the Silk Road trip in Samarkand and Bukhara, where I’ll round off this post with images, rather than a discourse. First of all, here is the Uzbeki style of building grand houses and palaces. Even smaller-scale, more domestic houses often have these charming decorated alcoves.
And then, the wonderful tiled mosques, perhaps even more magnificent than those I had already seen in Istanbul. Some have been restored to their full glory after becoming dilapidated in earlier years.
After the second silk road trip, I did follow up with separate visits to Syria, a more complete tour of Uzbekistan, and futher visits to Turkey, where I’d been travelling since I was a student. With images and source books, I looked further into the history of the Silk Road, its legends and its cultures, and from this came my children’s book Stories from the Silk Road, and illustrated lectures which I gave for NADFAS (now the Arts Society), and at various other venues including cruise ships. Some of the ports in the Black Sea, for instance, are old Silk Road ports, so it was more relevant to the passengers than you might think. And, of course, I can enjoy writing blogs such as this one, to share the images with you.
Laurie Lee at Sheepscombe, photographed by Chris Chapman, and reproduced here by his kind permission. (More about this occasion below)
Whenever I pick up a book of Laurie Lee’s poetry, I fall under its spell. This first happened when I was an impressionable teenager searching for something that would resonate with my own experience of the countryside. The pull of nature had been a part of my life since my early years, occupying a place in my heart which I couldn’t really express, but which Laurie Lee could. It touched me in a way both visceral and emotional. As a child, in an era when it was possible to roam safely, I would sit in a favourite tree for hours, or cross fields to reach a stream fringed with pink campion and bluebells. Sometimes on my own, sometimes with a friend or my older brother. (It was more powerful, I discovered, without the grown ups.)
But at the time I began to read his poetry, I sensed that this instinct for nature was something which might slip away from me as I moved into my mid-teens. Another great nature poet, Wordsworth, was able to express that potential loss:
There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
Apparelled in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore;—
Turn wheresoe'er I may,
By night or day.
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.
(Ode to Immortality)
Laurie Lee’s verse played a different part, in that it took me right into the heart of that experience, rather than just ruminating on how it once was; it gave me a way of holding onto that instinctive bond with nature, and also brought a special poignancy with it.
If ever I saw blessing in the air
I see it now in this still early day
Where lemon-green the vaporous morning drips
Wet sunlight on the powder of my eye.
Blown bubble-film of blue, the sky wraps round
Weeds of warm light whose every root and rod
Splutters with soapy green, and all the world
Sweats with the bead of summer in its bud.
If ever I heard blessing it is there
Where birds in trees that shoals and shadows are
Splash with their hidden wings and drops of sound
Break on my ears their crests of throbbing air….
(From ‘April Rise’)
I still have the edition of his work in the ‘Pocket Poets’series, which I bought when I was at school, complete with the marks I made to indicate my favourite verses.
In these poems, I found a deep understanding of the magnetic pull of the English landscape – the fields, woods, rivers and villages which have especially captivated me. I may be fond of Wales, Scotland and Ireland too – and have plenty of Celtic ancestry – but it’s the English countryside that I have been immersed in all my life. Even though I have always had the travel bug, roaming the world when I could, England is home, and I can’t give up the primroses smelling delicately of hazelnuts, the ancient hedgerows, and the village fetes enjoyed on a hot summer’s afternoon.
When I first encountered his poetry as a teenager, my travels abroad were limited to trips by boat and train to Europe. So when I read what Laurie Lee wrote about returning home across the Channel, I recognised what he was talking about. I, too, had fallen back in love with the English landscape on the boat train after what seemed like very exotic adventures abroad.
Cowslips on Minchinhampton Common, a few miles from Slad
Far-fetched with tales of other worlds and ways,
My skin well-oiled with wines of the Levant,
I set my face into a filial smile,
To greet the pale, domestic kiss of Kent.
But shall I never learn? That gawky girl,
Recalled so primly in my foreign thoughts,
Becomes again the green-haired queen of love
Whose wanton form dilates as it delights….
So do I breathe the hayblown airs of home,
And watch the sea-green elms drip birds and shadows,
And as the twilight nets the plunging sun
My heart’s keel slides to rest among the meadows.
(From ‘Home from Abroad’)
‘Everyone has a Laurie Lee story’
I first wrote a blog about his poetry on my author’s website, at the time when we were living near Stroud, in Gloucestershire, from 2007-2014. It was barely a fifteen minutes’ drive from Slad Valley, Laurie’s old stomping ground, which he celebrated in his popular poetic memoir, Cider with Rosie. And talking to locals in the Stroud area, I was excited to find the living proof of his existence, even though he’d died over a decade ago in 1997. Here’s what I wrote at the time:
Laurie Lee’s old cottage
The First Laurie Lee Blog: written in Amberley, near Stroud
It often seems that he’s not quite gone from there. We are relative newcomers to the area, but practically everyone who’s been around Stroud for longer has a tale to tell about him. Just recently we watched the play of Cider with Rosie at the Everyman Theatre, Cheltenham. Two well-dressed middle-aged ladies behind us were discussing him.
‘So did you see Laurie Lee often, then?’
‘Oh yes! I used to meet him about twice a week, at the Imperial.’
(Hmm – interesting!)
My acupuncturist mentioned casually that he used to be her landlord, a musician friend related how he once gave performances with him, and a local, now well-established writer, revealed that she’d marched up to his front door when she was still a teenager, asking for advice on how to become a writer. Should she go to university or not? ‘You don’t need all that,’ he told her. And she didn’t, it seems.
So, as one who is often late to the party, metaphorically speaking, although I never met Laurie Lee, I can still revel in the legacy he left and the landscape he inhabited.
Yesterday, in brilliant sunshine, we walked up Swift’s Hill which lies on the other side of the steep Slad Valley. Ponies were basking in the sun, a buzzard or two soared overhead, and the primroses were out in the hedgerows.
Ponies enjoying the sun on Swifts Hill
We looked across to Slad, picking out the phone box, the pub, and the cottage we thought Laurie had lived in. There was woodsmoke – ‘having a bonnie’ as the garden owner told us later, when we chatted over the wall. The wonderful, steep-gabled grey stone cottages appeared along the route of our walk tracing the contours of the valley, ranging from charming but tiny abodes like something out of a folk tale to grander dwellings with many eaves.
When we drove back to Slad later, we paid a visit to the Laurie Lee bar at the Woolpack pub, Laurie’s local, hoping we wouldn’t get mistaken for tourists. Which in one way we were, of course – but maybe we were more pilgrims for an afternoon, on the L.L. trail.
We were not alone, but the atmosphere was relaxed, the bars uncrowded. We then visited at his tombstone in the churchyard, and later I looked up the poem ‘The Wild Trees’, which begins with the following lines:
O the wild trees of my home,
forests of blue dividing the pink moon,
the iron blue of those ancient branches
with their berries of vermilion stars
and ends:
‘Let me return at last….to sleep with the coiled fern leaves in your heart’s live stone.’
Present Memories of Christmas Past
Writing now, in December 2022, I recall with pleasure how when we lived in Gloucestershire, we often attended Johnny Coppin’s annual Christmas concert, ‘All on a Winter’s Night’, held in the Stroud Subscription Rooms, and always packed out. (Once it was so much of a ‘Winter’s Night’ that unfortunately we couldn’t even get there, down the icy hill from Amberley.) It was an evening of music and poetry from the ensemble, plus favourite readings from Laurie Lee, as Coppin had collaborated with the poet in the years before his death. I have a copy of their ‘Edge of Day’, a CD first released in 1989, which includes this poem, ‘Christmas Landscape’. It opens thus:
Tonight the wind gnaws
with teeth of glass,
the jackdaw shivers
in caged branches of iron,
the stars have talons.
There is hunger in the mouth
of vole and badger,
silver agonies of breath,
in the nostril of the fox,
ice on the rabbit’s paw.
Tonight has no moon,
no food for the pilgrim;
the fruit tree is bare,
the rose bush a thorn
and the ground is bitter with stones…
You can also find the full recording on You Tube – but please support Johnny Coppin’s albums if you can.
At Swift’s Hill, above Slad – a steep climb!
The Laurie Lee Journey
There is something about Lee which has inspired people to seek out his haunts, both in Gloucestershire and further afield. Adam Horovitz, poet and author, lived in the Slad Valley too, and found his own childhood entwined with that of the Lee family. He himself has been drawn back to live here later on in life. After Laurie’s death in 1997, he witnessed others taking their own Laurie Lee pilgrimage around the area, and even a ‘Night of a Thousand Laurie Lees’ when a bevvy of tipsy cyclists, dressed in Laurie-type gear, careered from Miserden down to Laurie’s pub, the Woolpack at Slad on the first anniversary of his death. ‘More Lauries enter, all signing books, adjusting their hats and husking out requests for beer, their tongues parched with the effort of song and cycling….’ And when Laurie’s widow, Kathy, enters the pub, ‘Laurie suddenly seems alive and well and living on in the valley’s dreaming, in the moths and minds of everyone who lives there or passes through…’ It seems that people not only want to honour the poet, they want to be Laurie Lee.
The opening of ‘As I walked out one Midsummer Morning’ has acted as a call to other young men to follow in Laurie’s footsteps:
The stooping figure of my mother, waist-deep in the grass and caught there like a piece of sheep’s wool, was the last I saw of my country home as I left it to discover the world. She stood old and bent at the top of the bank, silently watching me go, one gnarled red hand raised in farewell and blessing, not questioning why I went. At the bend of the road I looked back again and saw the gold light die behind her; then I turned the corner, passed the village school, and closed that part of my life for ever.
Then follows his epic journey on foot from his Slad valley home to Spain at the time of the Civil War. It has inspired others to tread that path too, and then write about it likewise. Benedict Allen – the well-known TV traveller – set out to explore Lee’s journey in a programme which can be seen via the link below:
And very recently, I watched a documentary – Laurie Lee: The Lost Interview, described later. The morning after, I sauntered across the road to a charity Christmas sale, and on the second-hand book stall found a copy of As I walked out through Spain in Search of Laurie Lee by P. D. Murphy – yet another young man setting out to repeat Laurie’s journey. What are the chances of me finding that book straight after viewing the film and deciding to write a new blog about Laurie Lee? But serendipity often occurs, when I’m writing these posts!
And today…
My own connection to the poet ebbs and flows, as the years proceed. As mentioned, the recent broadcast of ‘Laurie Lee: The Lost Interview’ has set me going again, and provided the direct inspiration for this current post. Here in the carefully compiled documentary, you can see Laurie himself, filmed in the late 1980s walking through the countryside, and coaxed into talking about his early life by David Parker, a BBC producer who’d gently persuaded Laurie to open up to a microphone and a camera, in a way that he usually avoided. (It may be accessible through Now TV, or try for other online options).
In this film too, the ‘Who is Rosie?’ mystery from his other well-loved memoir, Cider with Rosie, continues…was she a real person, who became Laurie’s first tentative girlfriend, with a foray into love and cider drinking under the hay cart? Or was she a composite character, the essence of those first awakenings he had with the cuddlesome village girls? We may never know for sure, but we find out a little more here.
A bonus for me is that this documentary also links our former Gloucestershire home with our current one in Devon, through the presence of photographer Chris Chapman. Chris is a Dartmoor-based photographer par excellence, but he spreads his net wider, and had an earlier career in television as a ‘reluctant presenter’, as he puts it. In this current film, he appears with some of his own iconic shots of Laurie Lee, having collaborated on the original project with David Parker. I am very grateful to him for giving me permission to use one of the most touching and interesting portraits of Laurie ever taken. When Chris sent Laurie a copy of the photo, he wrote back to Chris:
‘Girl looks at horse, horse looks at me, I look at you, You look at us. Perfect.‘
But before signing off, I can’t resist sharing Roger McGough’s question which many of us may ask – just how did Laurie Lee create his magic with words? Well, there might indeed be a spell involved…
I love the way he uses words.
Will they work as well for me?
Sorry, said the words.
We only do it for Laurie Lee.
But words are common property –
They’re available and free
Said the words, ‘We’re very choosy,
And we’ve chosen Laurie Lee.’
I want to write like he does,
But the words did all agree,
‘Sorry, son, we’re spoken for,
We belong to Laurie Lee.’
(Roger McGough - Transcribed from Laurie Lee: The Lost Recordings )
Yes, well, some of my early poems were also influenced by Laurie's! But if Roger McGough can’t emulate him, what hope had I?
‘Living in our valley was like living with broad beans in a pod – it was so snug.’ – Laurie describes the connection with his landscape
Laurie’s poetry remains an inspiration for me – and helps me to reconnect with the landscape which I feel is in my blood, whether Gloucestershire, my childhood in Kent, or time spent in country lanes, bluebell woods, pasture, moorland, and river banks. The older I get, the more powerful I find the magic of our natural landscape again. What was discovered in childhood returns – and perhaps had never really gone away.
And if I am feeling a touch melancholy at the passing of time, then these words of his strike home:
Slow moves the acid breath of noon
over the copper-coated hill,
slow from the wild crab’s bearded breast
the palsied apples fall….
Slow moves the hour that sucks our life,
slow drops the late wasp from the pear,
the rose-tree’s thread of scent draws thin –
and snaps upon the air.(From 'Field of Autumn')
View from Painswick Beacon, further north from Slad – and a shot of Painswick village, also in Laurie’s area, as we arrive from an energetic walk with friends along the Beacon (they are the two closest to my camera). Perhaps the name ‘Golden Heart’ tells us something about this special part of Gloucestershire, and the poet it gave birth to.
Further Resources
Interviews with Laurie Lee can be downloaded on the BBC website
Sweet Chance: Spring on Minchinhampton Common (which also celebrates the life of another local poet, W.H. Davies the ‘supertramp’. He famously wrote: ”What is this life if, full of care,/We have no time to stand and stare.’)
‘The Three Hares: A Curiosity Worth Regarding’ by Tom Greeves, Sue Andrew and Chris Chapman (photography), a fascinating study of the Three Hares symbol, found from the Silk Road to the churches of Dartmoor. (no longer in print but copies may possibly be found second-hand).
Cherry's Cache 
